Harry Potter and the Discworld
by JK Pratchett
Summary: After surviving the Killing Curse, Harry Potter attracts Death's curiosity. As a result, the barriers separating the Roundworld and the Discworld begin to break down, leading to more danger than Harry could ever have imagined...
1. Harry and Death

**Harry Potter and the Discworld**

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it isn't ours. We're just borrowing it to play around for a while. Harry Potter and associated characters/locations etc are the property of J.K. Rowling, Discworld and associated characters/locations etc are the property of Terry Pratchett.

**Summary:** When Harry Potter miraculously survives the Killing Curse, he attracts the attention and curiosity of Death. As a result, the barriers separating the Roundworld and the Discworld begin to break down, leading to more danger than Harry could ever have imagined…

**Chapter 1: Harry and Death**

Harry James Potter looked up at the mobile above his head, gurgling in delight at the miniature Quidditch match playing out above him. His father, James, tapped the mobile with his wand, speeding it up, and laughed at the way his little son's eyes revolved. On the other side of the room, his wife, Lily, looked up from the clothes she was folding and frowned playfully at him.

"James, don't torment him. You know that you'll regret it…"

He turned to her, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "What's he going to do? He's only one year old Lil!"

"Well, just remember what he did to Sirius."

James blanched. "True… But that was – that was… very… stressful for him." He looked down at his son. "Actually – fancy a drink? I'll just – I'll just head downstairs. You know, before anything happens…" He hurried from the room in a purposeful manner that was in no respect a retreat from the possibility of accidental magic. Lily's laughter followed him down the stairs, and he grinned.

Having brewed himself a coffee, he sat down in front of the fire, spreading the _Daily Prophet _in front of him. Although he deplored the lack of journalistic integrity, the habitual inaccuracies and the shameless bias, he accepted that this was part and parcel of reading a government sponsored newspaper. It was a secret ambition of his to found an independent paper, one that would answer only to the truth. Maybe after the war…

After a while, Lily came down the stairs. She strode into the lounge, her hands on her hips and her hair frizzed out, bright, platinum yellow. She did not look happy. With an effort, James swallowed a laugh. There was a heavy silence while he struggled to master his facial expression, and Lily looked at him dangerously, tapping her foot. Eventually, James cleared his throat.

"Erm… Something wrong dear?"

Lily scowled. "If you're going to work him up like that, you might have the decency to stick around for the consequences…"

James gave her his best puppy-dog expression. "Sorry dear, I didn't realise that would happen. You, er – you look lovely."

Lily's scowl deepened. She drew her wand, and swished it precisely. Her hair twitched, changed back to its normal colour, and settled back into shape. James sniggered, and she swished her wand again. A cushion zipped across the room, and smacked him in the face. He dissolved into laughter, and eventually Lily started to chuckle along ruefully. She flopped into a seat, smiling at him.

"I suppose we ought to be proud really. So strong already."

James grinned at her. "Damn right. He'll be a hell of a wizard when he grows up." His eyes began to gleam in a very familiar manner, and he stood up. He pulled her out of the seat, his grin spreading. "So… What do you want to do this evening Mrs Potter?"

Lily tilted her head back, pretending to think. "Well… Harry's asleep…" She ran her fingers up and down his arm playfully. "What do you fancy?"

James smirked, and leaned in to kiss her. And then Harry started to cry. Lily dropped her head onto James' shoulder with a wistful sigh.

"Oh well. Better go and see what he wants. Don't go anywhere…" She hurried out of the room, and James began to clear up, grinning to himself.

There was a knock at the door.

He looked up, puzzled. Who the hell would be knocking on their door at this time of night? He walked to the door, not even bothering to pick up his wand – a decision he would very soon regret.

"James? Who is it?"

The door blew off its hinges.

* * *

The war memorial in the village square looked rather out of place given the garish decorations. The square was positively covered in gruesome pumpkins, rubber bats, and other such traditional items. Costumed children sprinted around, buzzed up on sweets, their harassed parents desperately trying to keep up. There was a slight lull in the festivities as a dreadful figure loomed out of the autumn mist.

He was tall and pale, with red eyes. His skin looked disturbingly like scales, where it wasn't covered with a flowing, silvery-grey robe. He looked around him balefully, disgusted by the decorations. Actually, on closer inspection, they looked like a low-rent version of the Hogwarts Halloween feast, which he had always enjoyed. He glared at one of the children, who pointed at him.

"Nice costume, mister!"

The Dark Lord Voldemort clenched his fist, itching to draw his wand and slaughter them all. Revolting parasites… later, he told himself. Later; after he had destroyed his nemesis. He stalked out of the square, looking for the house Pettigrew had told him about, his robes billowing behind him. He reached the end of the street, and concentrated on the address. A house appeared, as if growing from the earth, light shining from its uncurtained windows. As he stared at the house, the dim sound of a small child screaming reached his ears. He smiled, humourlessly, and pushed the garden gate open. He knocked on the door. He saw someone appear through the frosted glass, and raised his wand. With a hiss, he blew the door off its hinges.

He strode through the smoke like a wraith, and bared his fangs as James Potter cried out to his wife. He stepped over the wreckage of the door, and raised his wand.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

The jade green light flew like an arrow, striking Potter dead centre in the chest. He fell backwards, his last look of shock captured forever on his face, throwing his arms out. Voldemort stepped over his corpse and climbed the stairs. He followed the sound of crying to the back room, where Lily Potter was standing in front of the cot.

"Please, not Harry…" she begged him tears falling down her face.

"Stand aside you foolish girl!" he spat, aiming his wand at her.

"Please…"

"Get out of my way!"

"No – "

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Just like her husband, Lily Potter fell to the floor with a shocked final expression, marred with tears. The baby's screams only grew louder, and he walked over to him, starting to laugh. He looked down at the small child, his red eyes meeting the dazzling green ones. Strange, that such an insignificant thing could ever be considered a threat. Still, he was not one to leave anything to chance. Again, he raised his wand.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

The boy watched him intently in the moment before the curse killed him.

Except it didn't kill him.

The curse _bounced_.

Voldemort gaped – for the first time in his life – in astonishment as the unblockable curse _bounced_ off the boy and sped back towards him. He didn't have time to scream before it blasted him in the face.

Unimaginable pain.

He felt his body crack, begin to crumble under the tearing energy. His bones shattered, one by one, incredibly quickly, and he felt himself being reduced to dust. In the second that it took for his body to be destroyed, the Lord Voldemort endured a lifetime of agony.

He screamed then.

There was a pulse of magical power, and the bedroom was destroyed, save for a circle around the cot that was clear of all damage. Indeed, the only sign that Harry had been attacked at all was the lightning bolt shaped scar etched on his forehead.

Harry's tearful cries cut the night air.

* * *

As the roof of the Potter's house was blown off, an altogether stranger sight could be seen in their back garden. A white horse, a powerful looking beast, had cantered to a halt some feet above the ground. Its rider was obscured by a robe so black it hurt the eyes to look at it. Suspended from the side of the horse was something like a lance, with no tip. There was also a bag, half open. Several hourglasses protruded from it, filled with trickling sand.

WOAH THERE. THERE'S A SATISFACTORY HORSE.

The words seemed to have a physical presence, echoing like slamming tombstones. The black-cowled figure dismounted, patting the horse's head.

WAIT HERE BINKY.

Taking the bag and the lance from the horse's saddle, the figure strode towards the house, and entered the kitchen without taking the time to open the door. He didn't need to. He stepped over James' body dispassionately, caring not for the sudden death. He ascended the stairs, and walked into the bedroom, following a shimmering blue tendril of life force. The walls were on fire, but that didn't bother him in the slightest. There were two fading spirits hovering there, clutching each other as best they could, and looking down at the cot that was miraculously unscathed. Blue tendrils connected them to their bodies.

JAMES AND LILY POTTER?

The spirits turned to him.

"Who the hell are you?" James demanded.

The black robed figure pushed his hood back, revealing a grinning skull and shining blue dots in his eye sockets.

"Or perhaps I should say: what are you?" James amended.

I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT A WIZARD SUCH AS YOURSELF WOULD RECOGNISE ME, MR POTTER. IT IS, AFTER ALL, A TRADITION THAT I APPEAR IN PERSON FOR THOSE GIFTED IN THE MAGICAL ARTS.

"The Grim Reaper…" Lily tried to gasp, looking momentarily puzzled at the lack of breath.

PLEASE. CALL ME DEATH.

"Yes. Of course. I suppose you're here for us?"

AND TWO OTHERS, MR POTTER.

"Two? I wouldn't have thought Voldemort had enough of a soul left for you to collect after everything he's done! And… who would the second be?"

YOUR SON, MISTER POTTER. MY APOLOGIES.

The two spirits looked at each other. Their expressions were… curious. Had Death been capable of it, he would have frowned. He paced forward, and looked into the cot. The boy was alive. Screaming, obviously upset, but alive. Death reached into his bag, and pulled out two of the hourglasses. One glowed with a weird light, and he tapped it. Nothing happened. The other was perhaps stranger – none of the sand was moving.

THIS IS MOST EMBARRASSING. THERE SEEMS TO BE SOME IRREGULARITY…

Death concentrated, remembering what had happened. He had a poor memory, despite knowing everything that could or would happen. It was just so difficult narrowing it down to one memory. After a moment, he nodded.

THE CURSE WAS REFLECTED… THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED. AND THIS DARK LORD SURVIVED AS WELL. He turned back to the Potters, who were both looking bewildered, although they seemed to be pleased about it. YOU DO REALISE THAT WHATEVER YOU HAVE DONE IS PLAYING HOB WITH MY SCHEDULE, DON'T YOU?

"We didn't do anything!" James protested. Lily tugged on his arm, frowning, and he nodded hastily. "Not that we wouldn't have done something if we'd known, but still…"

THEN HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN YOUR SON'S CONDITION?

"Well… There was a prophecy…" Lily explained.

It was at times like this that Death wished for glands. Not being able to feel emotion was a definite drawback. He imagined that being able to feel anger would be extremely cathartic.

A PROPHECY. I SEE. BUGGER.

"Erm…" James was looking curious. "I don't want to be rude, but I was under the impression that we had to choose to be ghosts. And, well, we haven't you see."

HMM? OH, SORRY… Death twisted the lance, and a glowing blue blade swung out of the tip. It was, in fact, a scythe. A single swing was all that was needed to sever both tendrils. James and Lily had time for one last shocked look of horror before their last link to that world disappeared for good. Death turned back to the baby in the cot.

THERE'S MORE THAN A PROPHECY GOING ON HERE…

He shrugged. There wasn't a lot he could do at the moment without going beyond the bounds of the duty. And it wasn't as if he didn't have other places to be. He gave the boy one last enquiring glance and turned away. He left the house, and remounted Binky. A moment later, it was as if he had never been there.

* * *

Later that evening – or, as it may have been, at the same time, or even earlier, time having little meaning in that dimension – Death brought Binky to a halt at the stables outside his house. The building was not an attractive or homely one, although it did have a certain mystique about it. This was perhaps due to the totally black décor, or the ever-present skull motif, that would have seemed clichéd were it not for the appropriateness of the design.

Death walked into the hall of his house, the bones of his feet clicking against the black tiles. The hall seemed to stretch away into infinity, despite the house appearing to have normal dimensions from the outside. He carefully placed the scythe, the blade now folded away, into the umbrella stand by the grandfather clock, next to a sword that was reserved for special occasions. Distantly, there was the sound of fat sizzling in a frying pan. Death followed the sound to the kitchen.

Standing at the stove was his servant, Albert. Formerly known as Alberto Malich, he was both the greatest wizard and the worst cook of all time. He had made a deal with Death, agreeing to work for him for all eternity in order to avoid dying, on the basis that, to a wizard's enemies, death was not necessarily the ultimate barrier to revenge. At that moment, he was frying his breakfast. Albert fried _everything_, even porridge. As Death did not eat, except on very rare occasions, this did not actually matter all that much. To be honest, Albert's job consisted of acting as an occasional sounding board when Death wanted to think aloud, as well as making sure that 'the master' didn't have a lapse in concentration and wander off to, for instance, find out the true nature of humanity. Such lapses happened embarrassingly often. Death took a seat at the table, and Albert turned around.

"Welcome back sir; job go all right did it?"

MOSTLY. A FAMILY OF WIZARDS POSED SOMETHING OF A DIFFICULTY.

"Ah, well, wizards are like that aren't they? Tricky little buggers." Albert said, either not realising or choosing to ignore the irony of his statement.

YES… THERE WAS A PROPHECY INVOLVED.

"Greatest of respect master, but prophecies are a load of cobblers if you want my opinion. Nothing can be fixed like that – 'cept yourself of course sir, begging your pardon."

Death nodded.

THINGS MAY BE DIFFERENT HERE ALBERT – THIS WAS NOT IN YOUR DIMENSION. OF COURSE, ANY INFORMATION YOU CAN PROVIDE IS WELCOMED.

Albert took a seat, peeling something black and crispy that might once have been a tomato from the frying pan and beginning to munch on it. He leaned back in his chair, looking mildly curious.

"Different how sir?"

THERE SHOULD HAVE BEEN FOUR DEATHS; A MOTHER, FATHER, THEIR SON, AND A DARK WIZARD. ONLY THE PARENTS DIED – THE CURSE THAT SHOULD HAVE KILLED THE BOY WAS REFLECTED, SOMEHOW. _AND_ THE DARK WIZARD SURVIVED IT AS WELL.

Albert nodded.

"How'd the parents die? Exceptional circumstances?"

THE MOTHER SACRIFICED HER LIFE FOR THE BOY. SHE REFUSED TO LET HIM BE KILLED.

Albert groaned in exasperation.

"You're kidding – they've still got magic like that? That's old magic that is, real old. Power of love, all that rubbish. Sounds like she created what's called a Carrick Tor shield – basically this spell that breaks all the laws of magic to ensure something important happens. Makes a mockery of everything wizarding stands for if you ask me… What about this other one, the dark wizard?"

HE TRIED TO KILL THE BOY, AND HIS SPELL BACKFIRED; IT DESTROYED HIS BODY, WHEREAS IT SHOULD – AS I UNDERSTAND IT – HAVE KILLED HIM WITHOUT EVEN LEAVING A MARK. AND THEN THERE'S THIS…

Death pulled out one of the hourglasses that he had taken to the Potter house. Inscribed on the bottom was Voldemort. The sand was frozen, unmoving. Albert stared at it curiously.

"Never seen that before, have you sir? What does it mean?"

IT MEANS THAT SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED TO HIS SOUL, SOMETHING THAT WOULD ALLOW HIM TO CHEAT DEATH.

Albert pulled a look of distaste.

"Well, that sounds like the bastard got himself a Horcrux."

A WHAT?

"A Horcrux sir. You split your soul, tear a piece of it off and store it somewhere safe. Death means your soul passes on – so if it ain't intact, it can't die. And neither can you."

Given that he was a skeleton, Death was incapable of any expression other than a fixed grin. However, those who knew him could often tell what he was feeling by the level of glow from his eyes. Right now, Albert surmised, Death was distinctly unhappy.

SPLIT YOUR SOUL? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO MY JOB WHEN PEOPLE GO AROUND DOING DAMN SILLY THINGS LIKE THAT? DON'T THEY REALISE I HAVE A SCHEDULE TO KEEP?

Albert shrugged.

"Recognised law of magic sir. Not a lot you can do about it to be honest."

I REALISE THAT, BUT IT'S STILL IMPOLITE.

"Yeah, well, dark wizards, what you going to do? Pretty much the rule isn't it? The brat though – he's fair game."

Death's eyes flickered.

YES… WE CAN'T HAVE PEOPLE GOING AROUND BREAKING THE LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE… IT'S JUST NOT PLAYING FAIR! IT MIGHT BE WORTH KEEPING AN EYE ON HIM.

Albert leapt to his feet, backing away.

"Oh no sir, I can't do that – I haven't got enough time! I need to stay here!"

DON'T WORRY ALBERT – I HAD SOMEONE ELSE IN MIND…

Death snapped his fingers. After a moment, there came the sound of bones scurrying across the tiles and a tiny shape burst into the room. Closer inspection revealed a rat skeleton, in an identical robe to Death himself. The Death of Rats, a little fragment of Death himself, given a body after a slightly embarrassing incident a few years ago. The skeletal rat scurried up the table leg, and perched himself on the end of the frying pan handle. Death leaned down.

FIND THE BOY, AND FOLLOW HIM. I WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS TO HIM.

SQUEAK! The Death of Rats tipped a salute with his scythe, and jumped from the table, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore placed the bundle on the front doorstep of number 4, Privet Drive. He looked down at the sleeping baby in concern. He knew the boy would not have the easiest childhood – but he would be safe, at least. He pulled a note from his robes, placing it on the blanket, and walked back to the gate at the bottom of the path. As he reached it, he thought he heard something rustle in the bushes, and he whirled around.

He could see nothing, but where magic was concerned that didn't mean a thing. He raised his wand, whispering a spell, but it revealed nothing. The only thing he knew of that could hide someone from that spell was sitting in his office at Hogwarts – so there was no-one there. Nothing human, anyway.

"Must have been a rat…" he muttered. With one last glance at Harry, he restored light to the street with a click of the Deilluminator, and turned on the spot. He disappeared with a slight pop.

From the bushes by the door, the Death of Rats peeked out. Seeing that they were alone, he jumped out and climbed onto the bundle. He stared at Harry's face, examining the scar carefully. He let out a loud SQUEAK as Harry shifted in his sleep, trapping the skeletal rat under his arm. Try as he might, the little rat couldn't escape. Well, he could cut the boy's arm off with a single strike of his scythe, but that was probably not a wise move.

Several hours later – several hours which had seen the metaphorical life squashed out of the Death of Rats in various diverse positions – the front door opened. Someone screamed, and snatched the bundle indoors. The Death of Rats dropped from his perch, tumbling in mid-air, but managed to slip in before the door was slammed shut.

Things were about to get interesting.


	2. The Rat, the Chest and the Letter

Chapter 2: The Rat, the Chest and the Letter

Mr Vernon Dursley was unhappy. This was not unusual, as many things made him unhappy. Young people made him unhappy. So did old people; the working class and the upper class; his neighbours; his business associates; foreigners; Oxford; Volvos; any programmes shown on ITV; policemen; traffic wardens; animals and, on one trip to the Lake District, a rock he stubbed his toe against.

He had many reasons not to be unhappy, although he seldom thought of them as such. He had a loyal wife and a loving son. He was the director of his own company, Grunnings. This allowed him to own a nice house, two cars and go on holiday twice a year to distant places that were almost exactly like England, but with better weather. At this moment, however, he was not thinking of any of these things.

On this sunny July day, Vernon Dursley was unhappy because he was holding a letter. The envelope was of yellow parchment and the address was written in green ink. On the large purple seal was a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounding a large letter 'H'.

"Is it from… them?" said Petunia, his wife, who was leaning over the back of his chair.

"It looks like it," said Vernon, "It is addressed to _him. _It must be from… his lot."

"Burn it, then!" Petunia hissed, as if afraid to be overheard, "Burn it, and pretend it never came."

Vernon considered this for a moment, and then shook his head.

"No, Petunia, no: he's bound to know."

"Hadn't you better go and take it up to him then?"

"T-Take it up to him? Are you mad, woman?! I'm not going up there. _It's _up there…with _him_!"

'Him' was Harry Potter, eleven years old; 'there' was the spare bedroom where he had lived for most of his life and 'it' was a large, old fashioned wooden chest that was currently dozing quietly in the corner. Harry was sitting on the floor between his bed and the chest of drawers, trying to teach the Death of Rats how to walk the tightrope.

"Come on, Ratty," he said, "You can use your scythe to help you keep balance, if you like."

SQUEAK said the Death of Rats stubbornly, folding his arms.

Harry called him Ratty because it seemed as good a name as any. He was Harry's only friend. Other children tend to avoid you when you spend half your time talking to a skeletal rat that only you can see. The Dursleys had sent him to the best child psychologists in the country, hoping that they would have him sectioned and so take him off their hands, but the psychologists could find nothing wrong with him. He was a normal, healthy boy, a little underfed and pale, who just seemed to have an unshakable conviction in the existence of his imaginary friend.

What the Dursleys had not told the psychologists, for fear of being sectioned themselves, was that they were not entirely convinced that Ratty was imaginary. Once, when Petunia had sent Harry to wash the dishes, she had come back in to find the tea towel drying the plates and glasses by itself. It had dropped to the floor as soon as it had spotted her but she had never forgotten the incident. Things would often move by themselves when Harry was in the room and it was impossible to leave cheese anywhere in the house; unattended, it would simply vanish into thin air. Number Four Privet Drive was the only house in Little Whinging that kept its Wensleydale in a strongbox.

Although he made everyone he met strangely nervous, Ratty actually allowed Harry to live a relatively comfortable life. He had the spare room to himself, where he was encouraged to take his meals alone. He welcomed this, as it was an opportunity to escape his bullying, piggish cousin Dudley who was really too stupid to be scared of Harry. He was left to his own devices most of the time.

Although they never treated him with anything approaching kindness, the Dursleys were wary of upsetting him, and not just because of Ratty. Strange things happened around Harry Potter, things that even he couldn't explain. At Dudley's last birthday, during a trip to London Zoo, he had spoken with a python and accidentally set it on Dudley when he made the glass front to the python's case vanish. Harry had once asked his aunt and uncle why these things happened around him. It was the only time Uncle Vernon had ever dared to shout at him:

"There's no reason! It's just coincidence, you understand? There's nothing special about you; nothing at all! I don't want to hear any more nonsense about you making weird stuff happen, right? And don't mention magic ever again!"

Harry had been much bemused by this; he had never used the word magic. So he had returned to the spare room, where the Dursleys never dared venture. The reason was to do with something that had happened last year, at Dudley's tenth birthday party.

As was customary on such occasions, the Dursleys were visited by Vernon's sister, Aunt Marge. She was a huge, cruel woman, like an oversized version of the bulldogs that she bred. Harry, venturing downstairs to take two slices of birthday cake for him and Ratty, had accidentally trodden on the tail of Ripper, Aunt Marge's favourite bulldog. He had chased Harry round and round the garden, until at last Harry had been forced to climb a tree to escape. Rather than help, the Dursleys had stood on the patio and laughed uproariously at him. Harry did not think he had ever been more scared or embarrassed.

What happened next was perhaps the strangest thing that had happened in his already very strange life. A large wooden chest, bound in gleaming brass, fell out of the sky. It landed beside Ripper who, after recovering from the initial shock, had given it a tentative sniff. The chest immediately rose up on hundreds of little legs and pursued Ripper round and round the garden. Nobody was laughing now; especially not Harry.

Ripper, panicking, tried to run for the safety of the house but the chest caught him before he was halfway across the lawn. There was an unpleasant moment, followed by a 'gulp' from the chest. The chest then proceeded to chase the Dursleys into the house, Vernon and Petunia carrying Aunt Marge, who had fainted at the sight of Ripper being eaten by a piece of furniture. This done, the chest returned to the foot of the tree where Harry was still perched and sat down.

Harry had stayed in the tree all night, not daring to move. The chest did not stir; it looked no more remarkable than any other piece of storage. Eventually, half numbed by cold and very hungry, Harry had dropped down and sprinted for the back door. The chest stood up and trundled along behind him like a faithful pet. The Dursleys had locked the door behind them and run to hide in the attic, leaving Harry alone in the garden with the chest. After a few panicky seconds he realised that it was not going to eat him. In fact it seemed quite affectionate, rubbing up against his leg and smiling at with teeth the size of bread slices.

When the Dursleys had finally been persuaded the come down and open the door, it was decided that Harry would be allowed to keep the chest. They refused to call the police ("What _would _the neighbours think?" Aunt Petunia had said), Aunt Marge had fled the premises, never to be seen again and besides, they wouldn't have dared to try and force the chest to do anything it didn't want to do. It seemed quite happy to live with Harry in the spare room, cleaning any laundry that was put in it and generally acting like a normal chest. Harry liked it. It was like having a big, shaggy pet dog that just happened to scare his aunt and uncle senseless.

"Harry? Come down here," Uncle Vernon called up the stairs.

Harry sighed and stood up.

"You coming?" he asked the Death of Rats.

SQUEAK said the Death of Rats, climbing up onto Harry's shoulder.

He found Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia standing in front of the mantelpiece in the living room. They looked even more nervous than usual.

"Here," said Uncle Vernon, thrusting the letter into his hand. Harry took it and, curious, immediately slit it open. He had never received a letter in his life. It was addressed to _Mr H. Potter, The Spare Room, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey_. It read:

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY _

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore _

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards) _

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. _

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

_P.S._

_As the dependent of a non-magical family, Hogwarts is pleased to provide assistance in the acquiring of magical currency, school supplies and other relevant articles. You will be contacted by Mr. R. Hagrid, a representative of the school, shortly after receipt of this letter. _

Harry re-read the note several times.

"Any idea what this is about?" he asked the Death of Rats. The Death of Rats shrugged.

"Would you _please… _stop talking to your… friend," Uncle Vernon said through gritted teeth.

"What is this all about?" Harry asked his aunt and uncle, "What's Hogwarts. What does it mean: 'School of Witchcraft and Wizardry'?"

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia shuffled their feet and stared at the skirting board.

"I'm not a wizard. Am I?" said Harry.

"No!" barked Uncle Vernon, before adding, "That is… yes, probably."

"Probably?"  
"That is to say, your parents were," Uncle Vernon sniffed, as he always did when mentioning Harry's parents, which was rarely.

"My parents were wizards?" said Harry excitedly. His aunt and uncle had told him precious little about his parents, except that they had died in the same car crash that had given him his curious scar, shaped like a lightning bolt. He had often tried to imagine what they were like but, even in his wildest fancies, he had never pictured them as wizards.

"Yes, they were, and it appears you are too," said Uncle Vernon uncomfortably.

"So that's the reason for all the weird stuff that happens to me, like the python at the zoo? It's magic?"

Uncle Vernon gave a grunt that was probably meant to be a 'yes'.

"You _knew_?" said Harry, "You _knew _that I was doing… doing magic?

"Knew!" shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly, "_Knew! _Of course we knew! How could you not, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that_… _that _school_… and came home every holiday with her pockets full of frog-spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was: a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!"

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then when went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as… as… _abnormal_!"

She stopped suddenly, realising what she had just said. The colour drained out of her face. Harry was about to say something, to shout at her for insulting his mother when the doorbell rang. Harry stomped out of the room, glad of the excuse to avoid a row.

He opened it to the biggest man he had ever seen. He filled the doorway, blocking out all the sunlight. He had a long, tangled black beard that grew down to his belt and long black hair falling down over his shoulders. He would have been very intimidating, were it not from the kindly beetle-black eyes that twinkled down from above the beard. The pink umbrella he carried helped too.

"'Arry!" he boomed, "Well I never! Look 'ow you've grown. Why, when I last saw you, you fitted right in the palm o' my hand!"

He reached out and patted Harry on the shoulder with one shovel sized hand. Harry staggered to one side; it was like being petted by a bull elephant. EEK said the Death of Rats, clinging desperately to Harry's shoulder.

"Blimey! What's that?" cried the man, pointing his pink umbrella at the Death of Rats like a sword.

"What? Wait, you mean you can _see _him?" said Harry, delightedly.

"'Course I can see him!" said the man, not lowering his umbrella, "Wha' is it?"

"This is Ratty. He's my best friend," said Harry. The Death of Rats waved. The man at the door lowered his umbrella, though he still looked unsure.

"Yeah, Dumbledore said there might be some funny stuff," he said warily.

"Dumbledore? So are you," Harry glanced at the letter, "Mr R. Hagrid? From Hogwarts?"

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had entered the hallway and were regarding Hagrid with looks of barely concealed outrage, no doubt terrified what the neighbours would think when they saw him being greeted at their front door.

"Sir, I must insist that you vacate our doorstep immediately," said Uncle Vernon, a vein in his forehead throbbing purple.

"Oh dry up, Dursley, you great prune," said Hagrid, "I'm 'ere to collect young Harry and take him to London fer his school things. We'll be back the day after tomorrow, alright?"

"Now see here, you can't just…" Uncle Vernon began but froze at the sound of hundreds of little feet clattering across the landing. Aunt Petunia flew into the living room with a squawk, with Uncle Vernon right behind her. Harry's chest came clattering down the stairs and came to rest at his feet.

"This yours too?" Hagrid asked Harry, his hand tightening on the handle of his umbrella.

"Yes. I suppose," Harry said with a shrug. The chest beamed at Hagrid with teeth like paving slabs.

"Right. An' is it comin' with us?"

"It pretty much does what it wants. It thinks I'm its owner or its mother or something."

"Right, right," said Hagrid distractedly. He produced a hip flask from inside his moleskin coat and took a long swig.

"Tha's better!" he said, smacking his lips, "Well, shall we be off then Harry?"

Grabbing his coat, Harry eagerly followed Hagrid down to the front gate. The Death of Rats rode on his shoulder and his chest followed behind on hundreds of little legs.

* * *

_A/N. Our story proper doesn't really begin until Book IV. With that in mind, the next few chapters will be 'excerpts' from Harry's first four years at Hogwarts. If we don't change it, consider it to follow the canon. Don't forget to review!_


	3. A First Impression He Won't Get Back

**Chapter 3: A First Impression He Won't Get Back…**

On September 1st, platform 9¾ was normally busier than Diagon Alley at the start of the winter sales. Hordes of children, catching up with friends, saying goodbye to parents – parents nagging their children about every last little thing, in traditional fashion – all at the top of their voices, as the noise of the train made it difficult to hear. It was a veritable hive of activity.

Normally.

This year, apart from the train itself, the station was in near silence. And all because of one eleven year old boy, who was attracting incredulous stares as he ambled through the station, examining his surroundings casually. Now, there were several good reasons for staring at the boy. He was, after all, the most famous wizard of his age. However, since no-one there actually knew this, since his famous – or infamous – scar was obscured by his fringe, it seemed likely that the stares were caused by his luggage and his travelling companion.

Most of the people around the boy had been around magic since childhood, if not birth. They were used to unusual sights. And impressive trunks were nothing new – it was rumoured that one of the Malfoy's owned a solid gold trunk, and if you had the money, you could get hold of a trunk that you could comfortably set up home in. Trunks that moved were also not uncommon. It was just that the one following this boy had legs. Hundreds of them in fact. It also had a rather disconcerting habit of _staring_ at people, as if wondering how they would taste. Perhaps the most disconcerting thing about it was that it didn't actually have eyes, or indeed any facial features to speak of. Nevertheless, the assembled witches and wizards could feel the trunk looking at them, specifically in a manner that suggested it wanted to ask "What you lookin' at pal?"

And once you managed to drag your eyes away from the trunk, then you had the thing on his shoulder. A rat. Again, rats weren't unusual in and of themselves, although owning one would result in merciless teasing for being poor or just out of fashion. It was just that this particular rat was a skeleton. And wearing a black robe, with a folded up scythe slung over his shoulder. And that was more than odd, that was _worrying_. As the boy walked past them, grown men and women cast protective charms over themselves, muttering nervously and hiding their children behind them.

And he was talking to it. _Talking_! As if they were friends!

What kind of boy was this?

* * *

Harry was, to put it mildly, impressed. This place was amazing! All these people, and the… Muggles? They had no idea! And the train was simply beautiful. The people staring at him were a little unsettling, but he was used to it. Hagrid had explained that his trunk and Ratty were unusual even by magical standards, so he was prepared to wait. He reached the train, and paused while he waited for his trunk to manoeuvre itself up into the carriage. He smiled, remembering what Hagrid had called it: the Luggage. He had never been able to think up a suitable name, but that seemed to fit nicely.

He stepped up after it, swinging Hedwig's cage under his arm, making her squawk angrily. He had thought about putting her in the Luggage for the journey, but decided against it. He wasn't entirely sure she'd survive, and he was rather fond of the beautiful bird. As he sat down, Ratty jumped off his shoulder, squeaking loudly. He disappeared through the closed door. Harry put his feet up, and took his wand from his pocket, looking at it lovingly. He had found himself doing this quite frequently since buying it; he knew he couldn't actually perform magic until he got to the school, but he loved the way he could feel his magic through it. It made him feel special, for the first time in his life.

Of course, it wasn't all good. The creepy man who had sold him the wand – Mr Oliver? Something like that – had been very excited about it, talking at length about the twin wands. Personally, Harry found the idea of any link between himself and the man who had killed his parents a little distasteful. Still, it was hardly the wands fault, for all that rubbish about the wand choosing the wizard.

The door to the carriage opened with a creak, and Harry looked up, startled. There was a red-headed boy standing there, looking shy. Harry smiled at him, and the boy stepped in.

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Not at all, help yourself." Harry welcomed him. The red-head flashed him a grin, and dragged his trunk in, throwing it up onto the rack. He sat down opposite Harry, and reached his hand out.

"Ronald – Ron Weasley."

"Harry Potter." Harry shook hands, delighted. He was making a friend already! The other boy blinked.

"Sorry, what? You're – you're Harry Potter? With the scar and everything?"

Harry concealed a sigh. He had experienced a little of this in Diagon Alley, and Hagrid had explained why. As with the twin wand, he found it all a little distasteful, but he supposed he could understand it. He flicked his fringe out of his eyes, and giggled as Ron's eyes bulged.

"Bloody hell… Sorry, shouldn't stare really should I? My mum would kill me!"

Harry grinned. "You should have seen the people I saw in Diagon Alley. I'd have got less of a reaction if I'd ridden through naked on a horse."

Ron laughed, and the two boys fell into conversation. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had had this much fun!

It didn't last.

Shortly after the train set off, the carriage door was pushed open, revealing a skinny blond boy. He didn't seem to notice Harry at first, his gaze drawn to Ron as if by magic.

"Good lord, another Weasley? You're everywhere! Well, at least I know that Potter wouldn't be hanging around with _you_."

"And who the bloody hell are you?" Ron snapped, his temper rising.

The blond all but struck a pose. "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Think it's funny do you?" he snapped, as Ron snorted derisively. "At least I can afford decent, _new_ clothes – did you inherit yours, or just take them from the local dump?"

Ron jumped to his feet, but before he could say anything, Harry spoke up. "Hello – Draco, was it?"

The blond turned to look at him, and jumped backwards, terror on his face. "You! Where – where is it?"

Harry pointed at the Luggage, asleep on the rack, and Draco whimpered.

"Do you want me to wake it up, get it to say hello?"

"No! No – I – sorry to disturb you, I'll just – I'll just go…" The blond boy backed away through the door. Harry called after him.

"Draco? You don't need to look for Potter anymore – you found him."

Draco blinked, confused, and Harry waved. Malfoy grimaced, turned and hurried back the way he had come. Ron stared at Harry in confusion.

"What the hell was that all about?"

"Oh, he insulted the man I was shopping with, and my Luggage tried to eat him."

"Your luggage… Tried to eat him."

"Yep." Harry reached up and smacked the Luggage. It shook, stood up and jumped to the floor. "Say hello to Ron."

The Luggage turned to face Ron, who was now backed up against the door, quaking like a leaf. Harry sighed.

"Don't worry, it won't hurt you. It's just a big softy really." The Luggage looked up at Harry in an unmistakably hurt fashion, before jumping back up to its space on the rack. It appeared to be sulking. Ron looked at Harry incredulously.

"Where'd you get something like that?"

Harry shrugged. "Just showed up one day, ate my aunt's dog."

Ron nodded slowly, and took his seat again – as far away from the Luggage as possible. Conversation continued, but there was a barrier between them that hadn't been there before. Ron was scared, which upset Harry. He didn't want people to be scared of him. The awkwardness was eased slightly by the arrival of the food trolley; Ron seemed prepared to forgive anyone who bought as many sweets as Harry did. They spent a happy ten minutes experimenting with Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, before moving onto the chocolate frogs, which caused Harry some problems. They kept jumping around. It was as he tried to catch one, grinning happily as Ron laughed uproariously, that Ratty reappeared.

SQUEAK! His scythe flashed through the air, bisecting the chocolate frog with one swipe. Ratty leapt onto the twitching sweet, striking a victory pose, his scythe above his head. Harry sniggered at the ridiculous sight – and only then noticed that Ron was not laughing anymore. He looked up. Ron was cowering in the corner, huddled in his seat.

"What the hell? That's… That's…"

"Ratty. He's my best friend." Harry scooped Ratty into his hand, and took him over to Ron. "Look, he's – "

"Get it away from me!"

Harry stopped dead, offended by this. "He, not it. He's not a thing. And he won't hurt you, he's my friend."

"Friend? He's a bloody death omen!"

"Well sure, if you're a rat." Harry had sort of picked up what Ratty did when he wasn't keeping Harry company, but wasn't entirely certain why he did it. None of his business really. Silence fell as the two boys stared at each other. And then:

"Squeak?"

It wasn't Ratty. Harry's eyes were drawn down Ron's chest to his breast pocket, where a sleepy looking rat was poking his head out. A real rat.

SQUEAK? Ratty jumped out of Harry's hand, landing in Ron's lap, looking up. SQUEAK! He scampered up Ron's shirt, clinging tightly, and jumped into the pocket. There was a flurry of activity before both rats jumped out, Ratty chasing the other rat, waving his scythe madly.

SQUEAK! SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK!

"Ratty, stop that!" Harry darted his hand down, plucking Ratty up by his hood. The skeletal rat wriggled, trying to get free, before stopping, folding his arms in a huff and glaring at Harry.

SQUEAK!

"What do you mean he isn't a rat? Of course he's a rat! I'm really sorry about this Ron, I don't know what's got into him… Ron?"

The red-head was dragging his trunk from the rack, shivering and pale. His pet rat was poking his head from his pocket once more. The boy was muttering:

"Mental… Bloody mental!"

"Ron?" But the red-head was already hurrying from the carriage, not even looking back. Harry slumped back into his seat, dejected. He glared at Ratty. "This is all _your_ fault!"

SQUEAK! was Ratty's unapologetic response.

The rest of the journey passed in silence.

* * *

Harry was in a very bad mood by the time he left the train at the station. Ratty had been spouting some utter rubbish about Ron's pet not actually being a rat, which was patently ridiculous, and everyone who had passed his carriage had seemed to think he was some kind of weirdo – as if he didn't find some of their quirks equally bizarre! On top of that, some bushy haired girl had come in and started nagging him about getting ready. Who did she think she was, his mother? Fortunately, she had seen Ratty; she left rather swiftly.

And it was raining.

As he moved with the other first years towards the boats (a shouted greeting from Hagrid had lifted his spirits slightly) Harry became aware of whispering around him. He looked from side to side, discreetly, and swore to himself. People were pointing at him, talking about him. He didn't know why, but he didn't like it. It was either because he was a 'freak' or because they thought him some kind of celebrity, both of which annoyed him intensely. He glared at a couple of them, but it didn't seem to have any effect.

Twenty minutes later, after arriving at the school – a hugely impressive castle - he was even more annoyed. So, _ghosts_ thought he was weird now did they? Ghosts? One of them was carrying his head under his arm, and they had the nerve to call him odd? At least their appearance had distracted people from him. As the stern woman – Professor McGonagall – lead them into the Great Hall, whispering started up. Harry heard someone speaking as he walked past them.

"That's him – the one with the trunk! Wonder what he'll be like?"

His irritation increased.

At this point, a moth-eaten hat started to sing. Although the song was banal and the voice was tuneless, Harry was sufficiently stunned to forget about his irritation for the moment. He watched, curious, as people were called up one by one to wear the hat, which called out one of four names. He looked around the Hall, thinking to himself. The ones in green were Slytherin; he didn't want to go there, he had heard about them from Hagrid, and this desire was only solidified when Draco Malfoy ended up there, looking very pleased with himself. The Gryffindors looked like fun, but the bossy girl – apparently called Hermione Granger – was sent there, and he wasn't sure how much time he wanted to spend with her if he was honest. The ones in blue, the Ravenclaws, were apparently very clever – and Harry did not feel he would fit in. So – Hufflepuff? The only thing he really knew about them was that Malfoy didn't like them, which rather endeared them to Harry. Still, it wasn't his choice really.

The whispering started up again as his name was called out, and he walked forward. He got a stab of bitter amusement as McGonagall noticed Ratty on his shoulder, her eyes widening in shock. Still blinking, she placed the hat on his head.

"_So… Harry Potter. I remember your parents you know, fine people, very fine… So, where to place you? Ambitious, aren't you – want to prove yourself? Slytherin would be good for that…"_

"Not Slytherin…" Harry whispered, unable to hold it back.

"_Not Slytherin? Well… If you're sure… better be GRYFFINDOR!"_

There was muted applause. Some of his new housemates seemed positively delighted – two tall red-heads, possibly related to Ron, seemed to think this an almost religious experience – while others seemed to be too scared of Ratty to say or do anything. His irritation coming back, he didn't intervene when Ratty jumped from his shoulder to scurry around the table. Nobody spoke to him. Of course, once the food arrived, nobody spoke – they were too busy watching Ratty devour bits of food, which Harry had to admit was an unusual sight. Still, it would have been nice if someone had at least introduced themselves. It wasn't just the students; he had looked up at the staff table, and received the distinct impression that one teacher – a greasy, ugly man, dressed in black – was not all that fond of him either. In fact, just looking at him gave Harry a headache.

His sense of isolation increased as the evening went on. People seemed scared to talk to him, scared even to look him in the eye. He hadn't realised that wizards were so easily scared. Despondent, he went to bed early, hiding behind the curtains of his bed, Ratty his only company.

He had so wanted things to be different.


	4. The Philosopher's Stone

Chapter 4: The Philosopher's Stone 

Harry ran down the corridor, robes whipping at the back of his legs. The Death of Rats was ahead of him, standing by a bathroom door.

"Are you sure… she's in here?" Harry gasped, bending double as he tried to catch his breath.

SQUEAK said the Death of Rats, pointing to the bathroom with his scythe.

The Gryffindors were almost halfway back to their Common Room when Harry had realised that Hermione Granger was not with them. She had run off crying when that prat Ron Weasley had done a cruel, if accurate impression of her after Charms class. She had missed the Halloween Feast, with its pumpkin pie and living decorations. She had also missed Professor Quirrell's warning that a cave troll had broken into the castle, and Dumbledore's order that all students were to return immediately to their Common Rooms.

Harry had tried to tell the Gryffindor prefects but he could not make himself heard over the babbling of the other students. In desperation, he had dispatched the Death of Rats to search for her. Slipping away from the other first years had been easy; all the teachers had gone to search for the troll and the prefects were having great difficulty keeping control of the entire House.

Harry pushed open the door and stepped into the bathroom. It appeared deserted. He glanced down at the Death of Rats, who scuttled along to the furthest cubicle and disappeared through the door. There was a startled scream and Hermione burst out of the cubicle. Her eyes were very red. She was still clutching a damp handkerchief.

"Wh-what do you think you're doing, setting that… that _thing _on me?" she demanded of Harry, "Why can't you just leave me alone?!"

"Hermione, we've got go, now," said Harry urgently, "A troll has got in, through the dungeon. All the teachers are looking for it. We've got to get back to the Common Room."

"A troll? Really?" said Hermione, her curiosity piqued, "I wonder what _genus_ it is, because there is considerable variety between the different types…"

"Look, does it really matter?" said Harry irritably, "Dumbledore said it was dangerous. We've got to go before…"

Harry and Hermione froze. They could hear heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, as well as something scraping across the stone.

"I thought you said it was in the dungeon," said Hermione in a voice so high it was little more than a squeak.

"It must have got out," said Harry dully.

The footsteps had stopped, right outside the bathroom door. Something was sniffing loudly, like an elephant with a cold. With a creak, the door swung open.

The troll looked like a big, grey human, although the tiny, coconut-shaped head was much too small for its body. It was dressed in a loincloth made from some sort of animal hide and dragged a huge wooden club behind it. It stood in the doorway for a moment, gazing dumbly around the bathroom.

"Hide," Harry hissed, shoving Hermione back into the open cubicle.

"What about you?" she said.

"I'll distract it. You get help!"

Harry stepped out into the middle of the bathroom. He drew his wand, desperately searching his memory for a spell that would stop a troll. Suddenly the charms for removing warts or transfiguring mice that had so entranced him seemed ridiculous. What use were they now?

"Ratty, can you get on its shoulder and…" his voice trailed off. The Death of Rats was nowhere to be seen.

The troll's cruel little eyes settled on Harry. Its lips drew back, revealing jagged, broken teeth.

"Hey… hey you!" Harry squeaked. His throat was almost too dry to speak.

"Hey! Over here!" he said, a little louder, waving his arms.

The troll trundled towards him, rolling from one foot to the other like a mariner at sea. Harry thrust his wand ahead of him like a sword. His mind went blank. He stood, frozen in panic as the troll bore down on him. The huge club rose.

Instinct took over. A stream of rainbow sparks shot from Harry's wand, spraying the troll in the face. It roared, flailing blindly with its club. It smashed through a row of sinks like teacups. Jets of water from the broken pipes began to soak it. It flailed even more wildly. Harry dropped to his stomach to avoid being squashed. He heard Hermione scream as the club crashed through the flimsy wooden cubicles.

"Hermione!" Harry shouted. He tried to stand but slipped on the tiled floor, now slick with water.

To his relief, he saw Hermione clamber out past the broken door of the cubicle. She headed for the door but the troll, now with its back to the sinks, spotted her as she tried to pass it. It swung for her. The club smashed into the floor just ahead of her. Hermione tried to turn back, tripped and fell heavily.

Harry leapt at the troll's back, reaching for its shoulder. He had some vague idea about sticking his wand in its eye but he could not get a purchase on its back. The troll turned, club raised to strike.

The Luggage hurtled into the bathroom, the Death of Rats clinging desperately to its lid. It struck the troll in the stomach, carrying them both into the remaining cubicles. There was a whirlwind of splinters, tiles and toilet paper. A long grey arm was thrust out. The fingers scrabbled frantically for purchase on the floor before being slowly drawn back into the ruined cubicles. Then silence.

"_What _has happened here, Mister Potter?"

Harry looked up. Professors McGonagall, Snape and Quirrell were standing in the doorway, wearing expressions of deepest shock.

"Severus, the girl," said Professor McGonagall, her composure returning soonest.

"Troll… where's the troll…?" Hermione murmured as Snape helped her back to her feet. Instantly, McGonagall and Quirrell were on guard, their wands raised.

"Where is the troll, Potter? Have you seen it?" said McGonagall.

"Yes, Professor. I… I think it's in there," said Harry. Picking their way through the debris, they peered cautiously into the ruined cubicles. The Luggage was sitting contentedly amidst the shattered remains of a toilet bowl. The troll's club was lying beside it. There was no sign of its owner.

"Oh my," said Quirrell. He turned away and then fainted dead on the floor.

"Mister Potter, _what _is going on here?" demanded McGonagall.

Harry explained as best he could, while trying not to smile at his teachers' dumbfounded expressions. The Death of Rats sat on his shoulders, nodding in agreement and adding the occasional 'SQUEAK' by way of clarification.

When Harry had finished, Professor McGonagall's expression was very pale and thin lipped.

"You have been very foolish, both of you," she said to Harry and Hermione, "Five points will be taken from Gryffindor."

Harry and Hermione stared at their feet and said nothing; they had expected much worse.

"I hope you realise how lucky you both are," McGonagall continued, "Not many first years could have survived an encounter with a fully grown cave troll. Five points each to Gryffindor, for sheer dumb luck!"

Now Harry and Hermione were smiling, more from surprise than anything else.

"Mister Potter, you will accompany Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing," said McGonagall, "Tell Madam Pomfrey to give you both something for the shock. And take your… Luggage with you, if you please."

Harry and Hermione nodded and began to approach the door. As he passed, Harry could not help but notice that one leg of Snape's trousers was torn. The leg beneath was bloody, as if something had tried to bite him. Harry looked away quickly.

"Come on," he called to the Luggage. It gave a satisfied belch and waddled after them, as if very full and heavy.

"Thank you," said Hermione shyly as they walked away from the bathroom, "For coming to find me, I mean. It was very brave of you."

"What else are friends for?" said Harry.

* * *

"Only one of us can go on," said Hermione, staring at the door beyond the black fire.

"There's not enough left for two," she said, holding up the half-empty potion bottle.

"I'll do it," said Harry instantly, taking the bottle from her, "You take the other potion. Go back up to the castle. Find Hedwig, and send a message to Dumbledore. Tell him what's happening.

"Go with her," he ordered his Luggage, "in case Fluffy wakes up."

Hermione paused for a moment and then, to Harry's surprise, threw her arms around him.

"Oh Harry! You're a real wizard, you know," she said.

"Oh come on," said Harry, blushing, "You're much better than me. You can do stuff that I could never…"

"Oh, I don't mean spells and all that!" said Hermione, "I mean courage and friendship. You know: important stuff."

Ordinarily, Harry would have made a joke about Hermione considering anything more important than schoolwork but the moment was not right.

"Good luck," said Harry. He threw his head back and drained the last of the potion. It was cold, so cold that it hurt his throat to swallow it.

Bracing himself, he leapt through the black fire but the anticipated heat never came. The flames were cool and he reached the far door unscathed.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione called.

"Yes. Go!" he replied. It was not until he saw that Hermione and the Luggage were safe on the far side of the purple flames that Harry turned to open the final door.

For the first time that day, he felt truly afraid. The other rooms had been dangerous and difficult to overcome but Hermione had been with him. Hagrid's flute had lulled Fluffy to sleep; Hermione had burned away the Devil's Snare; together they had caught the enchanted key and the troll was already unconscious. The giant chess game had presented a problem. Neither of them was any good at wizard chess but deploying the Luggage Gambit (which involved battering opposing pieces to bits, before swallowing the king) had seen them through.

Harry took a deep breath and turned to address the Death of Rats, who had been riding on his shoulder.

"Ready?" he said. He froze. The Death of Rats had vanished. Harry's eyes swept the room. It was nowhere to be seen.

Harry did not linger long. Every minute he wasted, Snape was drawing closer to the Philosopher's Stone. With a heavy but determined heart, he opened the final door.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore leapt into the chamber, wand at the ready. Harry was lying on the floor, immobile, beside Quirrel's hideously burned body. The Mirror of Erised stood against the far wall.

Dumbledore hurried forward to check the two bodies, praying that Harry had survived. He stopped. He could hoof beats, coming from all around him. He drew himself up and watched as a dark rider on a white horse rode through the wall. A smaller figure, a bony snout poking out from beneath its cowl, leapt down from behind the rider and moved to Harry's side.

SQUEAK it said, pointing excitedly to Harry.

The rider in the dark robe dismounted and approached the bodies. He was carrying a scythe.

"Greetings, my old friend," said Dumbledore, lowering his wand.

STAND ASIDE, Death commanded.

"Oh, come now: an old wizard like me knows better than to interfere with your duties," said Dumbledore, a small smile playing across his face.

Death crossed over to the bodies. His gaze moved from Harry to Quirrell and back again. With a sigh like stale air escaping from a sealed coffin, he reached into the dark recesses of his robe. He drew out two hourglasses. One looked quite ordinary. Nearly all the sand had run out of it. The second hourglass glowed with a strange light. Death tapped it once or twice with his scythe.

WELL? he said, addressing the Death of Rats.

SQUEAK it replied with a shrug.

"Is there a problem?" said Dumbledore mildly.

Death replaced the hourglasses inside his robe.

I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE PROPHECY THAT'S GENERATING THIS BOY'S CARRICK TOR SHIELD?

"Oh yes. It was spoken to me."

DID IT HAPPEN TO SAY WHEN HE WILL ACTUALLY DIE?

"I'm afraid not. Prophecies tend to be rather short on details."

Death sighed again.

STAY WITH HIM, he said to the Death of Rats.

SQUEAK it said, saluting.

"You are not here for Harry?" said Dumbledore, careful to keep his voice calm and disinterested.

Death started at Dumbledore, as if not sure if he was serious or not.

IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING, YES. BUT TO BE MORE ACCURATE, NO. NOT YET.

"And the man?"

HELL IS NOT MY DEPARTMENT

Dumbledore nodded politely.

"Sherbet lemon?" he said, holding out a paper bag.

NO, THANK YOU, said Death remounting Binky, I FIND THEM A TOUCH TOO SOUR.


	5. The Chamber of Secrets

**Chapter 5: The Chamber of Secrets**

Harry stared at the odd little creature in confusion, and not without a trace of anger. Even by the standards of his unusual life, this was weird. A house-elf – whatever the hell that was – had been blocking his mail, and was now bouncing around on his bed in a bid to persuade him not to go back to Hogwarts.

Fat chance.

"Look – Dobby was it? – I want to go back! It's not much fun here you know… Ratty's friendly, but my Luggage isn't much of a conversationalist."

"Why would Harry Potter's luggage be talking sir?" Dobby asked, curiously. Harry pointed to the large trunk, currently on top of the wardrobe. As if in response, the Luggage stood up, and jumped down, flexing its hundreds of little legs.

Dobby screamed.

Harry flinched, painfully aware that the Dursleys and their dinner guests, the Masons, would be able to hear this. It would not make a good impression on them.

"Dobby, please shut up!"

But the house-elf had a very good reason for screaming now. Apparently annoyed by the shrill sound, the Luggage charged, its lid flipping open, giving a glance of tombstone sized teeth. Dobby leapt out of the way, and shrieked again. The Death of Rats was standing front of him, waving his scythe and SQUEAKING loudly. This only prompted Dobby to freak out even more, and with a click of his fingers, he burst the door open. Harry barely had time to open his mouth to yell before the Death of Rats and the Luggage were charging after the little creature in an attempt to catch it.

Harry ran after the weird trio but it was too late. Dobby was hanging from the lampshade above the dining room table, while the Luggage tried to climb up after him, with little success. The Death of Rats was bouncing around on the table-top, alternating between SQUEAKING at the Luggage and Dobby, apparently furious with them both. Clearly, he understood precisely what would happen to Harry because of this. The Dursleys were screaming as well, with Aunt Petunia actually jumping into Uncle Vernon's arms.

And then Dobby clicked his fingers again.

The table leapt up, sending the Death of Rats flying through the air. He landed on Mrs Mason's shoulder, and although she couldn't see him, she could obviously _feel_ him. Immediately, her screams joined the chorus. Harry stared at the chaos, aghast, unable to think of anything he could do to stop it even if he was able to use his wand. This was categorically a disaster.

And then the windows burst open.

Three men in grey robes jumped in, wands out. Dobby took one look at them and vanished with a pop. The wizards took one look at the situation, and nodded grimly to each other.

"_Stupefy!_"

In a flash, the Dursleys and the Masons were unconscious, flat on their backs (or as close to flat as Vernon and Dudley could get). The Luggage had calmed down with Dobby's disappearance and appeared to have resumed its nap. The Death of Rats scampered up onto Harry's shoulder. He was looking at the wizards with interest. One of them strode over to Harry, and flashed a badge.

"Evening Mr Potter, I'm Lethe Eddison, with the Obliviators. Would you mind explaining what happened here?"

Harry looked around him, trying to work out how to explain the devastation.

Words failed him.

* * *

Harry jerked awake with a yell as something landed on his chest. He pulled his glasses on and nearly screamed again at the sight of two enormous eyes mere inches from his own. Dobby echoed his scream, and leapt away from him, jumping to the floor and smashing his head against the bedpost in a rather disturbing fashion. Harry tried to grab him, but his arm wasn't quite healed yet; the bones weren't strong enough to form a fist.

"Dobby, stop it!"

He looked around the hospital wing, keeping an eye out for Madame Pomfrey. He froze. Was that someone standing in the shadows?

"Is there someone there?"

DAMN. STILL THERE…

Harry shivered. The voice had made him think of graveyards for some reason… He heard what sounded like a horse snorting, before the faint figure vanished. The Death of Rats scampered out of the shadows and climbed up onto the bed.

"Ratty? Who was that?"

The Death of Rats shrugged, trying to avoid the question, but Harry wasn't fooled.

"Tell me Ratty, I know you saw him!"

SQUEAK.

"What do you mean he was your boss?"

But before the Death of Rats could answer, Dobby started trying to punish himself again, and Harry was forced to drop the conversation. It took awhile to calm the excitable house-elf down, but once he had done so, Dobby had an interesting tale to tell. Harry listened with growing anger.

"_You_ bewitched that Bludger? You could have killed me!"

"Dobby is sorry Harry Potter sir, but Dobby only wanted you to be safe! Better injured at home than dead at school…"

"I'd appreciate it if you left that up to me in future… Give me one good reason why I shouldn't set my Luggage on you?" Harry almost hissed.

Dobby cowered in fear, and Harry felt oddly ashamed. The little creature was obviously terrified of the Luggage, with admittedly good reason.

"Look I'm… I'm sorry ok? I'm just frustrated. It hasn't been a good year so far…"

"Dobby knows Harry Potter sir. Dobby has heard the rumours the students spread about the noble Harry Potter, but Dobby does not believe them sir!"

Despite himself, the elf's words cheered Harry slightly. It was one of the few things since the summer that had done. 'It hadn't been a good year' was something of an understatement. After his chastisement at the hands of the Obliviators – they had threatened him with legal consequences! Hadn't even bothered to pretend to believe him! – he had thought his life couldn't get much worse, even if he was still shunned at Hogwarts. As it turned out, that had been one of the high points.

Once more, people had been freaked out by his admittedly unusual companions, but that hadn't been all. In addition, it had been revealed (to his own surprise, just as much as anyone else's) that he was a Parselmouth. For some reason, linguistic ability was seen as something to fear and curse, rather than admire and appreciate, so Harry was doubly isolated. This had only become worse after Mrs Norris' petrification, which most people seemed to blame him for, apparently based on his lengthy record of harmful behaviour. Not everyone of course. Hermione still stood by him, as she had done since the troll attack the previous year, and he had a couple of other admirers. Ginny Weasley and Colin Creevey, both first year Gryffindors, seemed to be obsessed with him to the point of stalking him, although Ginny seemed to have grown out of it in the last few weeks. And then there was Luna.

Luna Lovegood. Even by Harry's standards, she was weird. Still, she was friendly, and didn't mind the Luggage and Ratty, which was rare. They actually seemed to get on rather well; Luna had the same intuitive understanding of Ratty's SQUEAKS that Harry himself did, which was a little disconcerting. She had left Harry a truly bizarre 'get well soon' card. It glowed, and Harry was afraid to touch it.

Harry was suddenly dragged back to reality by the sound of the door opening. He threw himself back down onto the bed and saw Dobby disappear with a pop, which no-one else seemed to hear, thankfully. Pretending to be asleep, Harry watched in horror as Colin Creevey's Petrified body was wheeled in. Harry listened intently as Dumbledore and the other teachers muttered amongst themselves.

So the Chamber was real…

* * *

Harry hammered on the door to Lockhart's office. The man was worse than useless, but he was their only hope to save Ginny now that Dumbledore was gone. He cursed the Minister for Magic. He and Hermione had seen the cowardly fool give into Malfoy and fire Dumbledore whilst they were visiting Hagrid. They could have used Dumbledore's advice soon after as well; they would have known not to wander blindly into the Forest following spiders if they could have spoken to him. Still, it had given the Luggage a new interest in life. It often went on hunting weekends, apparently having acquired a taste for Acromantula.

Lockhart was ignoring them. Harry knocked again, and distinctly heard someone shifting around behind the door. He looked down at the Luggage.

"Can you knock for me?"

The Luggage backed up, giving itself space for a run up, then charged forward. Lockhart's door exploded in a cloud of splinters, and there was a loud cry from the office. Harry and Luna strolled through the debris and looked down at Lockhart, who appeared somewhat uncomfortable with the Luggage on his chest. Harry sniggered as Luna patted the Luggage like a dog that had done a trick.

"Good evening Professor."

"Potter, what is the meaning of this? How dare you just burst in here like that!"

"Sorry sir – we heard you moving around but you weren't answering. We err… Assumed that the Heir of Slytherin had got to you. To stop you rescuing Ginny, which is what you were preparing to do, right?"

Either Lockhart didn't notice the blatant sarcasm in Harry's voice or he was just choosing to ignore it.

"Ah yes… About that… Urgent business in London, dreadfully sorry and all that, but I've got to dash…"

And it was true. Harry looked around the office and Lockhart had been in the process of packing. He hadn't thought Lockhart was quite that cowardly. His eyes narrowed in anger.

"How can you just walk out on her like that? You're the Defence teacher – it's your job!"

"He doesn't know how. Never has – it's just the Snargle in his brain, telling lies…"

Harry looked at Luna in confusion. What was she talking about? Then he saw the look of horror on Lockhart's face, and the penny dropped.

"You're a fraud! Someone else did all the work, you just took the credit!"

"I – well, yes, I suppose that that is… broadly true, but you have to understand, I put a lot of work into covering it up!"

Harry rolled his eyes, anger making him more reckless that he would ordinarily be. He yanked Lockhart to his feet.

"Well, now you've got the opportunity to do something properly – we know where the Chamber is, _and _how to get in."

Lockhart gibbered softly. Luna smiled dreamily. "Isn't he lucky Harry?"

* * *

Lockhart landed at the bottom of the shaft with a thud, which caused Harry immense satisfaction. Even more satisfying was the following thud, as the Luggage followed Lockhart down. The scream indicated that Lockhart had been at ground zero. Harry jumped in first, telling Luna to follow him. Once they were all ready, Harry led the way down the passage. Harry and Luna halted at the sight of an enormous snake skin. The Luggage approached it and appeared to sniff it, as if it wanted to it it. Lockhart just collapsed, whimpering to himself.

"That's big. Really big, I mean."

Luna nodded. "It'll be bigger now. The Nazgul will have infected it."

Harry barely even noticed Luna's latest creature obsession; she was right, the Basilisk would be huge now. He was glad they had Lockhart to throw at it while they got Ginny out. As he thought this he saw, from the corner of his eye, Lockhart move swiftly.

"_Obliviate!"_

Before Harry could move, the Luggage was leaping through the air. The Memory Charm hit it and was absorbed. Briefly. A heartbeat later, magic pulsed out from the Luggage as the spell was repelled by the Sapient Pearwood. The bulk of the magic hit Lockhart full in the face, sending him flying into the roof of the tunnel. The force of his impact, combined with the shockwave from the rest of the magic, caused a deep rumble. Harry dived forward as the roof started to collapse, and the passage was quickly sealed off by a mountain of rubble. Coughing, covered in dust, he staggered to his feet.

"Luna! Luna, are you ok?"

"I'm fine Harry, the Nargles protected me. I don't think the Professor is very well though…"

"Like I care…" muttered Harry. "Stay there – I'll go on ahead. See if you can make a gap, I'll meet you back here."

"Be careful Harry…"

* * *

Harry dropped the sword to the floor. He was so tired he could feel it in his bones, and there was an odd pain in his arm. He looked down.

"Oh… shit…"

A Basilisk fang was imbedded in his arm. Maybe that bone-deep exhaustion was actually the poison? He slumped to his knees, clawing at the fang, and ripped it out of the wound. The pain was excruciating. He was dimly aware of Riddle laughing at him as he fell to the floor.

Wait.

That wasn't laughing – that was hoofbeats…

He looked up, and saw a pale horse walk through the wall. A tall, thin rider, swathed in a black robe, sat astride it. Harry couldn't see his face, but he could see the shining blue where the eyes should have been. Riddle didn't seem to notice any of this.

Harry noticed something else as well. The diary. One last surge of adrenaline overtook him, and he swung his arm upwards, then stabbed it down. He heard Riddle scream as the Basilisk venom ate through the diary, and Harry watched in grim satisfaction as the memory – or whatever it had been – vanished in an explosion of light.

Then he turned his attention back to the rider on the pale horse.

"Who – Who are you?" He managed to stammer, through lips that seemed unresponsive.

I AM DEATH.

The voice echoed around the chamber like someone was closing the lid of his coffin, and the rider pushed his hood back, revealing himself as a skeleton. Harry realised that this must be Ratty's boss.

"So – so I'm – I'm dying." Was that blood he could taste in his mouth?

YES. YOUR TIME SEEMS TO HAVE FINALLY ARRIVED HARRY POTTER, ELEVEN YEARS TOO LATE.

Harry glared at Death, trying to muster the strength for a final insult, but it was beyond him. Death's eyes flickered as another sound echoed round the Chamber. Phoenix song.

WHAT THE – OH BLOODY HELL.

Harry's vision cleared as Fawkes sobbed into the wound on his arm. He gradually felt the pain recede, his exhaustion fade, and he realised with a jolt that he didn't even have a scar where he had been bitten. He looked up at Death, a smug grin on his face. As far as he could manage, Death looked furious.

MARK MY WORDS BOY, ONE DAY THE SHIELD WILL STOP PROTECTING YOU – AND THEN YOU'RE MINE.

Harry sneered, and picked up the sword he had pulled from the Hat as he stood.

"I wouldn't bet on it…"

EVERYONE FIGHTS ME HARRY – NO-ONE SUCCEEDS, THEY ONLY DELAY THE INEVITABLE. AT LEAST YOUR METHODS ARE UNUSUAL; TRADITIONALLY, YOU'D CHALLENGE ME TO A GAME OF CHESS.

"Not my sort of game. You can leave now."

Death shrugged.

I WILL SEE YOU AGAIN SOON, MR POTTER.

He flicked the reins, and the horse turned around. As they approached the wall once more, Harry called out.

"That's a nice horse! What's his name?"

BINKY.

"Binky?!"

IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG?

"Isn't that a little… girly?"

Death didn't bother to respond.


	6. The Prisoner of Azkaban

Chapter 6: The Prisoner of Azkaban 

"… but I don't understand _why _he made me promise. I mean, come on, why would I _want_ go looking for Black?"

Harry sat back in his seat. There was silence in the carriage. Hermione looked puzzled, playing nervously with a strand of her hair. Luna was staring serenely at the patterns of frosted mist on the window. Ron looked the most troubled of all, his freckles standing out sharply on his pale face.

"I'd be more worried about that black dog you saw in Little Whinging," he said softly, as if afraid he would be overheard, "It sounds like a Grim to me."

Hermione let out a derisive snort.

"What?" said Ron, rounding on her.

"A Grim!" scoffed Hermione, "That's nothing more than an old superstition."

"It is not!" said Ron hotly, "My uncle Bilius saw one. Twenty four hours later, he was dead!"

"That was probably because he was as superstitious as you and died of fright because he _thought _he'd seen a Grim, when it was nothing more than someone's pet," retorted Hermione.

"Are you saying my uncle was thick?"

"Shh! You'll wake him up," hissed Harry, pointing to the man wrapped in an old cloak who was dozing in the corner of the compartment. They had indentified him as Professor R. J. Lupin from his luggage. They had guessed that he was Professor Lockhart's replacement.

"Hermione's right," said Luna dreamily, still apparently absorbed by the patterns of condensation on the window. Everyone stared at her. This was the first time any of them had ever heard Luna and Hermione agree on anything.

"Grim's aren't real," Luna continued, turning and fixing them all with her most sincere expression, "It's just a cover story for a secret society of warlock weavers. They train themselves to become animagi, turn themselves into wolves and then kill people named by their magical Loom of Fate. My father's written an article on it."

There was a long silence in the compartment. Harry realised that his mouth was hanging slightly open. He closed it. Ron coughed.

"I'd still be careful, mate," he said, "A Grim's a bad omen, even if it doesn't kill you."

"Like I need another one of them following me round," said Harry, turning to watch the Death of Rats. He was watching Hermione's new cat Crookshanks. The cat had shown absolutely no fear of the Death of Rats, which was a first, and this seemed to make the Death of Rats strangely nervous.

Ron deliberately avoided following Harry's gaze. Despite what was now a fairly solid friendship with Harry, Ron was clearly still uncomfortable around the Death of Rats.

At first Ron had been cautiously grateful to Harry for rescuing his sister from the Chamber of Secrets. However, as they had spent more time together, something more lasting began to develop between him, Harry, Luna and Hermione. Then the Weasley family had invited them all to visit over the summer, by way of a thank you, and by the end of their stay the four of them had become solid friends. Hermione and Ron bickered constantly but they never fell out for very long.

Hermione stood up, head cocked to one side as if listening to something.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry.

"The engine's stopped," she said.

Harry turned to the window. The landscape on the far side of the misted glass was not moving. He crossed to the compartment door and stuck his head out. All along the corridor he could see other students doing the same thing.

"What's going on?"

"No idea!"

"Why've we stopped?"

"What's the hold up?"

"I dunno, do I?"

"Shouldn't we go and find the guard or something?"

Presently Percy Weasley appeared, marching along the corridor with his chest thrust out, 'Head Boy' badge shining for all to see.

"Nothing to worry about," he said loudly, "Back to your compartments, please. Everything is under control."

"He hasn't got any more idea what's going on than we do," Ron said grumpily as they sat down again.

The long minutes dragged on. No announcements were made. Every now and then they saw a prefect walking past but they never stopped to talk. Inside the compartment the conversation was low and halting. People would stop speaking halfway through a sentence to glance at the window.

Hermione gave a little shriek.

"What?" said Harry and Ron together.

"Out there," said Hermione, pointing to the window, "Something moved."

Harry and Ron pressed their faces against the glass but the world outside was one of vague darkness.

"Look," said Luna, pointing to the lights. They seemed dim, as if lying at the bottom of a murky pond. Harry could hear cries of alarm from other compartments: it was happening all along the train.

It suddenly felt very cold. Harry drew his jacket closer but the chill pierced deep. It seemed to come from inside as well as out. He could feel his fingers growing numb.

Hermione drew her wand.

"_Lumos,_" she said. The light on the tip of the wand shone bright for a few seconds then dimmed, faltered and went out.

Harry and Ron drew their wands too. Harry tried to speak but his throat tightened and he could not force the words out. He glanced down at the Death of Rats. It looked smaller than usual, the pinprick lights in its eye sockets all but vanished. Even the Luggage seemed unable to move. Harry could hear its hinges rattling, as if it was shivering. The lights were very faint now; pale will o' wisps floating in a world of grey shadow.

Then they heard it: a long, rattling breath that lingered in the air. Another followed, louder, closer than before. It had a thirsty, urgent note to it, as if it was trying to suck every last breath of air out of the carriage.

A figure like a man appeared at the door. It was wrapped from head to toe in a black cloak, the cowl drawn so low that Harry could not see its face. Its head turned very slowly, as if searching for something. It breathed in, making the same long, lingering rattle. A scabbed, grey hand glistening with slime reached out from beneath the robes.

Harry's fingers went limp. His wand fell to the floor with a clatter. He felt a sadness rising inside him: a great tide of misery that blotted out all thought and hope and feeling. His senses felt dulled but he could hear, faint but clear, the sound of voices:

"_Please, not Harry…"_

_"Stand aside you foolish girl!"_

_"No –"_

_"Avada Kedavra!" _

When Harry came to he was lying on the floor of the compartment, looking up at his friends' anxious faces.

"You alright mate?" asked Ron hoarsely.

"Of course he's not alright!" snapped Hermione, "Help me get him back on the seat."

"What happened to me?" Harry asked as they helped him up.

"Well, you fainted," said Ron slowly, "Then Professor Lupin stood up. He cast some sort of spell at the… at the _thing. _Dunno what it was; a sort of silvery thing shot out his wand.

"'None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks' he said to it. Then the thing screamed, like it had been burned or something, and it vanished down the corridor."

"Where'd Lupin go?" asked Harry

"Here I am," said a voice from the door. Professor Lupin stepped inside. No longer muffled in his cloak, Lupin was revealed to be a fairly young man with a pale, drawn face and light brown hair that was already greying at the temples.

"Here," he said, reaching into his robes and drawing out a thick bar of chocolate. He broke off four large chunks and handed one to each of them.

"Eat it," he said, "It'll help."

Nobody did.

"What was that thing?" Ron asked.

"One of the guards of Azkaban," said Lupin, "A Dementor. The Ministry has ordered them to guard Hogwarts this year."

"They're letting those… those creatures into the _school_?" asked Hermione, horrified.

"They're only supposed to be guarding the perimeter. Dumbledore wanted them kept as far away from students as possible. He's not going to be happy when he hears they boarded the train," Lupin said darkly.

"Are there any more of them?" Ron asked, glancing over Lupin's shoulder.

"No," Lupin said, "I've just done a sweep of the carriages; they've gone, for now. I'm going back up front to speak to the driver; see if we can't get moving again. And eat that chocolate; it's the best way to get over a Dementor, trust me."

The Death of Rats looked up at Lupin as plaintively as it is possible for a skeleton to do but no more chocolate was forthcoming.

"Did… did any of you guys faint?" Harry asked, when Lupin had gone.

"No," said Hermione.

"I felt… sad, really sad, like I'd never be happy again," said Ron.

"But you didn't faint?"

"No."

Harry frowned and took a bite out of the chocolate. It did make him feel a little better but not much.

* * *

"Sirius… Sirius!"

Harry crouched over his godfather. He was wounded in many places, his black fur matted with blood. His breathing was shallow.

"Harry…" said Hermione, her voice tight with fear.

Harry looked up. Lupin had vanished into the darkness, heading towards the Forbidden Forest. Ron and Snape were both unconscious, the latter floating a few inches above the ground, turning gently in the wind. There was no sign of Pettigrew.

"There," Hermione croaked, pointing with her wand. Harry felt a sudden, penetrating chill.

Hundreds of Dementors were approaching across the lake; a dark mass of shadow floating above a smooth, obsidian surface. Harry could hear their breath, the long, dry rattling sound carrying easily on the breeze.

"Get behind me," Harry said to Hermione, raising his wand.

"Harry, what are doing?" she said.

"I won't leave him! You know what they'll do to him; what Fudge has ordered them to do if they catch him!" Harry said fiercely, placing himself between Sirius and the lake.

"There's no point trying to run, anyway," he said, "They're too fast; we'd never reach the castle in time."

Hermione did not reply but he could feel her hand on his arm. She was trembling badly.

The Dementors were nearly at the shore now. Harry could see their pale hands stretched out before them, glistening in the light of the full moon.

Hermione gave a scream. Harry whipped round. A figure in a dark cloak was standing a short distance away, on the lake shore.

"_Expecto_…" Harry began, and then he saw the twin pinpricks of blue light shining from inside the skull.

GOOD EVENING said Death

"Go away! You can't take him!" said Harry, turning his wand on Death.

DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU CAN STOP ME? I AM DEATH.

"I've managed so far," snarled Harry, not lowering the wand.

NOT FOR MUCH LONGER

Death seemed happy, almost triumphant.

"You're D-Death?" said Hermione, "Does that mean we're going to…?"

"No!" said Harry, turning his back on Death and facing the lake, "I won't let you take them!"

The Dementors were on the shore. Harry could feel the familiar, nauseating wave of despair rising, far worse than before. It seemed to rush on him from all sides, magnified a hundred times.

I'm going to live with Sirius, he thought, I'm going to leave Privet Drive and go and live with Sirius; with my godfather. He clung to that thought, strove to invest it with every ounce of will he possessed.

"_Expecto Patronum!" _he cried.

A thin silver mist appeared between him and the Dementors. For the briefest of moments it hung there. Then it was gone, evaporating without trace. Harry felt Hermione's hand fall away from his arm. His knees buckled beneath him. It was too much; he didn't even have the strength to raise his arm. He could hear his mother's voice, pleading for his life. He was dimly aware of a figure standing over him, darker than the rest, and of a scythe raised to strike.

Then all was light: bright, white light, shining on every side. Something plunged into the Dementors. They fell back, scattering in all directions. Harry felt his fear lifting, burned away by warmth rising from his chest and his gut. A silver shape like a great animal running on four legs was charging the Dementors. Wherever they grouped it leapt into the middle, horns and hooves striking mercilessly. In a few moments they had vanished, driven into the night.

Now the creature turned to face Harry and he could see that it was a great stag, all light and beauty, standing on the surface of the water. It bowed its head and turned, galloping away across the lake.

"Wait!" Harry called out but the stag ignored him.

As it reached the far shore, for the briefest second, Harry thought he saw someone standing there in the bushes. It was a man with round glasses and untidy black hair. Could it be…? Then the stag faded and the far shore was lost in the night.

THAT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN.

Harry turned. Death was still standing beside him. He was reading from a large leather-bound book he seemed to have produced from thin air.

LET ME SEE… WEREWOLF… DEMENTORS… AH, HERE WE ARE… WHAT? TIME TRAVEL?! OH, COME ON NOW!

Death shut the book with a snap.

THIS IS JUST GETTING SILLY.

"Hang on, what are you talking about: time travel?" Harry asked as Binky appeared, trotting out of the dark.

YOU'LL SEE, said Death grumpily, mounting up.

THIS ISN'T OVER, HARRY POTTER. NOT YET.


	7. The Goblet of Fire

**Chapter 7: The Goblet of Fire**

Harry stared at the Triwizard Cup in astonishment. He had never thought that he would reach it, despite the effort he had put into it, but there it was, gleaming at the end of the path, about a hundred yards away. Shaking his astonishment away, he moved towards it, breaking into a run in his excitement. All of a sudden, ahead of him, Cedric burst out of another pathway – he would reach it first. Harry's heart sank. It had all been for nothing.

Of course, then he noticed Cedric's pursuer – an Acromantula. Amazingly, Cedric himself didn't seem to have noticed it, intent on getting to the Cup first. Harry raised his wand, and cried out a warning as he snapped off a Stunner. Cedric dived to the floor, the spell shooting over his head, and looked up at Harry, furious. The screech of the Acromantula as Harry's spell impacted changed his anger to terror. He whirled round, but was knocked to the floor, his wand falling from his hand.

"_Stupefy!_" Harry cried again, but once again, his spell just glanced off the spider's armoured hide. This time though, it decided not to ignore the threat. Scuttling past Cedric, it headed straight for Harry, faster than he would have thought possible. He cast spells as quickly as he could, but none had any effect except to further anger the spider. In a heartbeat, it was upon him, and he was lifted into the air. He could distantly hear Cedric firing spells off as well, but to no more effect than Harry's had. Just as the spider opened its mouth, Harry aimed his wand again, crying out "_Expelliarmus!_"

He fell through the floor, and landed badly, his leg crumpling beneath him. The Acromantula reared over him, and he raised his wand, aiming it at the hairy underbelly. He shouted "_Stupefy!"_ just as Cedric shouted it again. The combination was much more potent; the spider toppled over, and all was still. Harry lay on the floor, panting heavily, and staring at the monstrous creature.

It was at times like this that he realised just how useful the Luggage really was. Sadly, the Ministry had decided that it would rather contradict the strict 'wands only' rule of the Tournament, so the Luggage had been banned. Apparently, even a sentient, borderline psychotic trunk on hundreds of little legs could be restrained, given enough power and creative thinking. It had taken the combined efforts of the entire Hogwarts faculty, plus those of Madame Maxine and Karkaroff, to keep the energetic little trunk captive. Harry was quite proud of that.

Dragging himself back to reality, Harry stared at Cedric, standing far closer to the Cup then he was. With a jolt, he realised that he had no chance of getting there before him, even if he hadn't injured his leg. He shrugged, and waved Cedric towards it.

"Go on then. Take it – I'm not going to win any races on this thing."

Cedric stood still, looking intently at Harry. Then he shook his head, taking a step away from the Cup. "Not going to happen. You should win, I wouldn't have got this far if it weren't for you. Hell, you've saved my life twice in here."

Harry shook his head irritably. "And you saved mine – stop being noble will you? Just take it, then we can get out of here."

But Cedric only shook his head again, moving further away from the Cup. Harry looked from him to the Cup, and an idea formed in his head. He looked back at Cedric. "Together then, what about that? It's still a Hogwarts victory, after all."

Cedric's jaw dropped, and he stared at Harry incredulously. "Together… Are you sure? Seriously?" Harry nodded, and Cedric grinned. "Well then, what are we waiting for?" He grabbed Harry's arm, and helped him over to the Cup. On the same breath, they each grabbed a handle.

They vanished.

* * *

In a distant part of reality, in a gap between dimensions, several old men sat, watching a comet shower over a jug of mead. They were sat on horses, suspended in the vacuum of space. The lack of air did not seem particularly to bother them, and neither did the cold. They were all dressed only in tiny scraps of leather, sandals and fur cloaks. They looked like barbarians.

"Wasn't much of a fight was he? I mean, as Dark Lords go." One suddenly announced.

The man next to him shook his head mournfully. "No idea about the Code whatsoever. What kind of self-respecting Dark Lord manifests as a fiery eye? How can you respect an opponent like that? One bucket of water and whoosh! No more problem."

The others nodded. It had been an unsatisfactory trip really. The orcs had been far from challenging opponents, and Sauron had been pitifully easy to defeat. And they hadn't even been thanked! All the credit had gone to some midgets with hairy feet, and all they'd done had been to throw a ring into a fire. Hardly heroic behaviour, in the Horde's book. It had rankled a little. Cohen hadn't said a word since, and it was making the others a little uneasy. When Cohen went quiet, it meant he was thinking, and when Cohen thought, then drama tended to follow.

Another of the Horde cleared his throat. "The one before that wasn't bad though. Had the black outfit down a treat, and destroying worlds is always a nice touch."

"Yeah, but he had that ridiculous cough. And what kind of a name is Vader? Sounds nice, I'll grant you, but people like a name they can understand! And all that whinging about his missus… Got on your nerves after a while."

"What's the point in it though?"

The Horde fell silent as Cohen spoke up. Worried glances passed between them. Truckle cleared his throat. "What d'you mean Cohen?"

"What's the point in fighten' 'em? They don't even know about the Code! And we ain't even getting remembered for it, it always goes to someone else – that little blond wimp. We wanted to be remembered forever…"

"Well… Well, we're having fun aren't we?" Truckle asked him nervously. Cohen snorted.

"I want a challenge. It's getting _boring_."

There was silence. Heroing, _boring_? The very idea chilled the Horde to their bones. They stared at each other, uncertain about their next step.

The silence was broken by the sound of hooves. Cohen looked over his shoulder, and the Horde followed his gaze. A familiar figure was riding through the starlight, his features obscured by a thick black robe. He drew to a halt as he came closer.

OH. IT'S _YOU_.

The Horde was, until Harry had been born, Death's greatest failure. Following their refusal to just lie down and let the Valkyries take them away from Dunmanifestin, they had ridden through reality, finding and fighting Dark Lord's wherever they could. They always survived. Still, that was for legitimate reasons, not the cheating quirk of fate that afflicted Harry. He had learned to – metaphorically speaking – live with it.

"Evenin'" Caleb the Ripper responded, jauntily. "Don't often see you out this way. Must be something big!"

A SLIGHT PROBLEM IS ABOUT TO BE SOLVED. SOMEONE WHO IS OVERDUE FOR COLLECTION IS ABOUT TO DIE.

"Overdue?" Cohen asked with a grin. "Sounds like he'd fit in well with us!"

The light in Death's eyes flickered. HE IS TOO YOUNG TO BE A HERO, ONLY FOURTEEN. ALTHOUGH HE DOES HAVE A PROBLEM WITH A DARK WIZARD, IT MUST BE SAID. And without a further word, he rode off. The Horde exchanged glances.

"A Dark Wizard eh? And fighting a kid? That's not right…" Truckle's opinion echoed around the group. Cohen shrugged.

"Well, we can check it out I guess…"

* * *

The Horde crept forward, watching the confrontation play out. Surprisingly, Cohen was practically dancing with glee.

"Red eyes! He's got red eyes! I haven't seen a Dark Lord with red eyes in years! Its classic! And the graveyard, the giant snake, the robes… Textbook Dark Lord that is!"

Caleb and Truckle grinned at each other. "Getting the spark back are we Cohen?" Caleb asked, his hand creeping towards his sword.

"Well, can't let the poor kid get killed can we? And doesn't look like he's doing well does he…"

On the other side of the ring of graves, the newly restored Voldemort stalked towards Harry, his eyes flashing with grim mirth. The eyes of the assembled Death Eaters were fixed on them, hungrily. Voldemort raised his hand. "His mother left upon him the traces of her sacrifice… This is old magic, I was foolish to overlook it. But no matter. I can touch him _now_." His fingers connected with Harry's head, and Harry screamed.

His voice echoed around the graveyard, but the effect was even greater than that. The Carrick Tor shield had been shattered – for the first time in his life, Harry was truly vulnerable. Voldemort withdrew his hand, and continued his monologue as Harry recovered. Harry looked up, and saw a shadowy figure watching him. The figures eyes were glowing bright blue. Harry bit back a snarl of rage. If he was going down, he was going down fighting, he had to!

And then, miracle of miracles, Voldemort cut him free, and gave him back his wand. They stood, facing each other, ready to duel. And then a cry rang out.

"Come on lads! Up and at 'em!"

A group of old, mostly naked men, all of them waving swords, appeared behind the ring of Death Eaters. Chaos ensued, as the startled Death Eaters tried to fight back. It seemed an uneven contest; the Death Eaters were younger, and had magic on their side. But the old men were astonishingly quick, and seemed to be able to put themselves just where the Death Eaters were failing to cast curses. Death Eater after Death Eater fell under their blade, and Voldemort abandoned Harry to attack the interlopers himself. Harry stared, incredulous, and then ran. He grabbed Cedric's body, and summoned the Cup towards him.

A second later, he had gone.

In the graveyard, the battle still raged. Once the Death Eaters had recovered from the shock, the fighting had become much more even. Although the Horde still proved impossible to hit, they couldn't Apparate. Death Eaters disappeared with a pop, avoiding sword strokes that would have killed them instantly. Cohen couldn't remember the last time he had enjoyed himself so much! And then Voldemort appeared in front of him. Cohen's diamond teeth flashed in the darkness, and he swung his sword down, burying it in the Dark Lord's chest with a cry of triumph.

Voldemort looked down at the blade protruding from his chest in puzzlement. Cohen was equally bemused. Then Voldemort looked up, snarling in anger, and threw Cohen backwards with a flick of his wand. He pulled the sword out, and threw it after him. The Horde all stared in shock. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen!

"Did you really think that you could kill me? A common Muggle, kill me! With a _sword_! Inconceivable!" Voldemort's voice rose, until the Horde could almost feel his anger. They gathered around Cohen, who had climbed to his feet, reclaiming his sword.

"Lads, I think the magic here might be a little different… We're going to need to think about this a little I think."

The other members of the Horde stared at Cohen in shock. Retreat? They never retreated! But to their surprise, Cohen was still smiling in delight. "Cohen?" Truckle asked.

"It's a challenge. This is going to be the stuff of _sagas_!"

The Horde fell back, avoiding the spells sent after them with insolent ease. Death watched them go, and remembered what was going to happen now. He sighed. This was going to be hell on his schedule, he just knew it.

* * *

The effect of the Carrick Tor shield breaking down was in fact far more widespread than any of them could have seen. There had been so much magic bound up in it, and it had been shattered so brutally, that it had caused ripples right through reality. The effect of this, combined with the hole that the Horde had unknowingly ripped in the walls of reality by their forced entry, was potentially devastating…

In the twin city of Ankh-Morpork, in the streets behind the Unseen University, the air shimmered in the sunlight. An exceptionally tall, well muscled young man, with flaming hair and gleaming armour, happened to be proceeding past, followed by a large dog. A dog that could easily have been mistaken for a wolf. He watched as a bird flew through the spot of shimmering air. It didn't come out the other side. He frowned, and bent down, picking up a stone. He threw it, and didn't see it land. He nodded to himself, and looked up at the Tower of Art, high above the city.

"Angua, Commander Vimes is _not_ going to like this…"

In the middle of the Department of Mysteries, two Unspeakables hurriedly sealed a door, putting up every locking spell and ward they could think of. Once they felt it was secure, they hurried off to make their report – a report strange even by the standards of the department. Their head of department found the story of a "hole in the air" a little hard to believe, but when they showed him, he nearly passed out.

In the hills of Lancre, there was a faint crackle as a circle appeared in a field of long grass. A few hours later, three people arrived, dressed all in black and flying on broomsticks, a sure sign of haste. Two of them landed fairly safely, but the third overshot by quite some distance, ending up in a tree. The other two – a plump, elderly woman with only one tooth, and a younger woman, also plump but with a magnificent head of hair – winced at the foul cursing as the third woman disentangled herself. She was a tall, striking woman, with a proud glint in her eye. They walked around the circle, muttering occasionally, before regrouping to discuss it. A conclusion reached, the tall woman looked back at the circle.

"So. That's the way of it is it? Well, I can't be havin' with that!"


	8. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place

Chapter 8: Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place 

Harry sat on the edge of his bed. He glanced down at the letter in his hand for the third time in as many minutes. He did not need to read it anymore; he knew its contents by heart:

_Dear Harry,_

_Moony will be at your house at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning. Pack your things. Be ready to leave as soon as he arrives. Do not reply; it's not safe. _

_Padfoot _

Packing takes no time at all when your Luggage gets up and runs round your bedroom to hunt down your odd socks. So Harry was left with time on his hands and he was spending it the same way he had spent most of his summer: sitting and thinking.

The first few weeks had been the worst. He would wake up in the night with the image of Cedric's body, his eyes glassy and unfocused, still clear in his waking mind. Worse still were the dreams of a pale, snake-like face, screaming the same curse over and over in a high, cold voice:

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Then the flash of green light and Harry would wake to find his bed sheets damp with cold sweat.

The days were little better. He would lose hours just sitting in silence, replaying the events of last June in his mind. Could he have done something different? Could he have saved Cedric? What if he had touched the Portkey first? What if Cedric had never left Hogwarts? What if Harry had refused to enter the Tournament in the first place? Worst of all: what if those strange men had not appeared? Those two words, 'what if', seemed to precede every other thought.

He had tried to occupy himself by doing something constructive. He had taken to watching the Muggle news avidly. He stole Uncle Vernon's newspaper from the wastepaper bin when none of the Dursleys were looking. He searched every column, every article for any hint of what was happening in the Wizarding World; what the Death Eaters had been doing these past months; what the Ministry was doing about Lord Voldemort's return.

The _Daily Prophet _was next to useless. There was no mention of Voldemort or Death Eater activity. Rather, the editor seemed determined to devote more and more space to more and more trivial subjects. Despite the fact that the most dangerous Dark wizard in living memory had returned to full power, the _Prophet _decided to devote a two-page spread to discussing the actors who might be cast in the next series of a popular radio programme. At least the Muggle news had an excuse, even if they were just as unhelpful.

Harry would not have felt so frustrated with the media if he had been in contact with his friends, but they had been silent all summer. He had received a few short, trivial letters at the start of the holidays and then nothing, until now.

Harry had not thought to write to Sirius, lest the Aurors tracked Hedwig to his hiding place. Sirius had evidently felt the same: what Harry had taken to be a regular owl had, upon delivering the letter, shrank until it became a little wooden carving of an owl.

He was seeing the Death of Rats less and less too. It had never lived with Harry as such but now it was little more than an occasional visitor. Harry could not remember when he had felt so lonely.

There was a knock on the front door. Harry sat bolt upright. He leapt to his feet and rushed onto the landing, the Luggage at his heels.

"I'll get it!" he shouted, slipping in ahead of Aunt Petunia, who had just come out of the kitchen.

"Hello Harry," said Lupin as the door opened. He looked even paler and thinner than when Harry had last seen him, at the end of his third year. He was wearing a shabby tweed suit that made him look like a tramp pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.

"This is Tonks," Lupin said, introducing the woman standing beside him.

"Wotcha!" said Tonks brightly. She was quite young, not yet out of her twenties, with a pale, heart-shaped face and bubblegum pink hair. She was dressed like a punk, in ripped denim covered in lots of chains.

"And _who _are you?" Aunt Petunia asked as she peered over Harry's shoulder, not even bothering to disguise the sneer in her voice.

"Aunt Petunia, this is Mr. Lupin," said Harry, "He was one of my dad's friends."

"I've come to collect Harry," said Lupin politely, "He'll be staying with me until the start of term, if that's alright of course?"

"Oh," said Aunt Petuina, taking a hasty step back, "you're… one of _them_."

"Wizards? Yep," said Tonks. Her pink hair turned into a set of flowing blonde curls, a green Mohican, and back to pink, all in the space of a few seconds.

Aunt Petunia gave a little shriek and rushed back into the kitchen. Tonks laughed.

"Is this your trunk?" she asked Harry, staring with great interest at the Luggage.

"Yeah," said Harry, "Remus, what's going on? Why haven't I heard…?"

"Not here," said Lupin, dropping his voice, "It's not safe. We'll talk when we get there."

"Get where?"

"London. You're going to Side-Along Apparate with me. Tonks is here to take your Luggage; I can't take both of you together."

"And here's me thinking you enjoy my company," said Tonks with a mischievous smile. She reached down to touch the Luggage. It snapped its lid at her fingers. Her hand darted back. The Luggage creaked menacingly at her.

"Oy!" said Harry, rapping it on the lid, "Be nice!"

Having no lips, the Luggage could not pout but it still managed to radiate a feeling of 'sulk'. Nevertheless, it allowed Tonks to rest a hand on its lid without further attempts to maul her.

"Okay Harry," said Lupin, taking Harry's arm, "On three. One – two – three!"

There was a sound like a gun being fired. Harry felt the floor vanish beneath his feet. Less than a heartbeat later it was back. Now they were standing on a quiet London street. It was in a particularly rundown end of the city; many of the surrounding houses had peeling paint on the doors and broken panes in the windows.

After checking carefully to make sure there was no-one watching them, Lupin drew a little piece of dog-eared paper from his jacket and handed it to Harry. On it was written:

_The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place_

Harry looked up, intending to ask Lupin what this meant, when he noticed something very strange was happening to the houses in front of him. A new house appeared to be pushing its way up in between numbers ten and fourteen. It was inflating like a bouncy castle, pushing its neighbours aside with relentless force. When it had finished it looked no more remarkable than any other house in the street.

"What…?" Harry began to say but Lupin interrupted him:

"Fidelius Charm: it's only visible to the Secret Keeper and those to whom the Keeper chooses to reveal it. Now inside, quickly!"

* * *

"You sure this is the right place, Cohen?"

"Shut up for a second. I'm trying to concentrate here…"

The rest of the Horde shuffled their feet and spat on the ground while Cohen considered this latest difficulty. This new world was proving an even greater challenge than he had predicted.

After the initially promising encounter with Voldemort the Horde had quickly found themselves in a new and unfamiliar situation. They knew the Code. They knew how these things were supposed to go.

The first step to slaying a Dark Lord was to find his lair; usually a preposterously spiky tower, or variations on the theme. This had never been a problem for the Horde. You could always rely on finding a village full of frightened peasants who cowered and shivered when you told them where you were going, before pointing you in the right direction with fear and trepidation in their eyes. If they had really got into the role they might even try to warn you off, using phrases like 'abandon hope', 'despair' and 'certain death'.

The people of this world did not seem to know this. All they said were things like:

"Bugger off!"

Or:

"Put some proper clothes on, can't you? It's indecent, men of your age!"

So the Horde had stumbled on, grumbling at the state of the peasantry these days.

Now, at long last, they seemed to be getting somewhere. From where they stood on a slight rise, they could see the city spread out before them, stretching far beyond the dim horizon.

"This has gotta be it," Caleb the Ripper muttered to Truckle the Uncivil, "Big city, lying under a dark, polluting cloud, inhabited by goblin-like oppressed masses."

"Yeah, classic Dark Lord set-up," said Truckle, nodding sagely.

"Ah-ha! Got it!" cried Cohen. The rest of the Horde crowded round the road sign.

"It says," said Cohen, chest inflated with pride at having triumphed in this monumental battle with the written word, "Welcome to Lun-don!"

* * *

Number twelve Grimmauld Place proved to be even more dilapidated inside than out. It looked like it had been decorated in shades of grey sometime in the mid-Victorian period, then abandoned and left to rot. Moth-eaten animal heads stared down at Harry from the hall wall. Haughty, aristocratic faces cast unfriendly glances from their dull picture frames. The umbrella stand was made from a troll's foot and above it there was a row of shrunken House Elf heads, mounted on a shelf. There was a thick layer of dust over everything.

"Charming isn't it?" said Lupin wryly.

"Why on earth are you living _here_?" Harry asked, unable to turn his horrified eyes from the row of tiny Elf heads.

"As a matter of fact, I'm not," said Lupin, "You read the piece of paper, didn't you? This is the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix."

Harry tore his eyes away from the severed heads and turned to Lupin with a puzzled expression. Lupin appeared about to answer when a familiar voice spoke behind him:

"Remus, is that – _Harry?!"_

Harry turned to see Mrs Weasley standing in an open doorway.

"Molly, I really think…" Lupin began but Mrs Weasley cut across him:

"_What _is he doing here? Dumbledore _told _you to leave him where he was! This is Sirius's doing, isn't it?"

"Sirius? Sirius is here?" said Harry excitedly.

"Molly, this isn't…" Lupin began but was drowned out by a piercing scream. Harry clapped his hands over his ears but it did not shut out the terrible sound. Now the voice was screaming words:

_"Filthy blood traitors! Mudbloods! Desecraters of my Ancient House! Dogs! Get out! Out! I curse you, traitors and Muggle spawn!"_

The screams were coming from a picture frame on the wall, covered by a thick dustsheet. Mrs Weasley was shouting something at it but was unable to make herself heard. Harry felt Lupin's hand on his arm and a moment later he had been steered past the screaming picture, through the open door and into a large, stone-flagged kitchen. There were no lights in here; only the dull red embers in the great fireplace. Sitting in front of it, his legs stretched out in front of him, was:

"Sirius!"

Harry rushed forward into his arms.

"Hello pup," said Sirius, with a bark of laughter. Harry stood back. His godfather looked much healthier than the last time Harry had seen him. He had a fuller face and thick, clean hair and beard.

"Sirius Black," said Mrs Weasley, advancing into the kitchen like a gathering storm, "what – have – you – done?"

Each word was like a knife thrusting at Sirius.

"I invited Harry to spend a few days here before he goes back to school," Sirius replied. His face radiated innocence but Harry could see the twinkle of mischief lurking in the corner of his godfather's eye.

"I was there, Sirius, when you talked to Dumbledore last night," said Mrs Weasley, "He told you not to move Harry from that house. Dumbledore _forbade it, _Sirius!"

"Molly, I really don't think he's done any harm," Lupin interjected.

"Be quiet, Remus!" snarled Mrs Weasley, "I expected better of you. So did Dumbledore."

"Molly, he is _my _godson," said Sirius, not angry but very firm, "Not yours, not Dumbledore's: _mine. _And this is still _my _house. I can invite whoever I please to visit. I chose to invite Harry."

As Sirius spoke, Mrs Weasley seemed to inflate like a balloon; swelling with anger. For a moment Harry really thought she was going to hit Sirius. Then she deflated, the air hissing between her teeth.

"Hello Harry," she said, deliberately turning away from Sirius, "It's nice to see you. Are you well?"

"Err, yes," said Harry, a little shell-shocked, "What's going on…?"

"We'll explain in a little while, dear," said Mrs Weasley, "First you must unpack, then dinner. You can share Ron's room: he's in there on his own. Third floor, second corridor on the right, first door on the left. We'll explain later, I promise."

Once again Harry was taken by the arm and escorted to the door. The hallway was quiet again; the covered painting, deprived of an audience, had stopped screaming.

Harry climbed the grand old staircases, careful not to touch the obviously worm-riddled banisters. He passed more dusty corridors, hung with moth eaten tapestries and other fusty relics. He reached the third floor, only to find that he had forgotten which room he was supposed to find. He was about to call out when he spotted a wizened little face staring at him from behind a long dead pot plant.

"Hello?" Harry said. The House Elf emerged from behind the pot plant and shuffled towards a corridor. It was muttering to itself:

"Another mudblood come to pollute my mistress's house. My poor mistress, that she has to suffer to see all these half breeds and blood traitors infest her home…"

"Err… hello? Can you help me?" Harry said, louder now, but the House Elf continued to ignore him.

"The boy thinks Kreacher will speak to him but Kreacher won't listen, won't serve a mudblood. Friend of the traitor heir, no doubt, who brought the filth into the house his mother left him and Kreacher tended so faithfully for all these long years. Oh my poor mistress…"

"Kreacher, would you… Harry!"

Harry turned to see Ron Weasley leaning round a door.

"So Sirius managed to convince Lupin after all," he said happily, approaching Harry with a wide grin on his face, "Hermione owes me a knut!"

"Hermione? Is she here too?" said Harry.

"Yeah, she's sharing a room with Luna down the corridor," said Ron, "I'll just go get them. I guess you and I are sharing a room, right?"

"Yeah your Mum said…"

"My Mum?" Ron paused, frowning, "Did she see you come in?"

"Yeah," said Harry, "I think she and Sirius are arguing about it right now."

"I don't envy him," said Ron, "Mum was dead against you coming. So was Dumbledore. But after he'd gone, Sirius told us he was going to send for you anyway. Probably best to stay up here 'til we're called."

Harry wanted to ask more questions but he had to wait until he had been shown to his room (gloomy, like the rest of the house, but clean) and Hermione, Luna and Ginny had been called in. Harry learnt that Fred and George were also in the house but they had taken to spending almost all their time in their room with the door locked, so it seemed wise not to disturb them.

When, at long last, the greetings and the hugs had been given, and Luna had shared the latest home-made remedy from _The Quibbler _with him, Harry got down to asking the questions that had been plaguing him since he arrived:

"What _is _this place?"

"It's the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix," said Hermione, "It's a secret society that Dumbledore formed during the last war with… You-Know-Who."

"It's Sirius's house, really," Ron added, "but he can't stand the place, so he's said Dumbledore can do what he likes with it."

"So something _is _happening?" said Harry eagerly, "Vol- I mean, You-Know-Who, is doing something, right?"

"We think so," said Hermione awkwardly.

"We don't know much more than you, mate," said Ron, "No-one tells us anything and they won't let us sit in on their meetings. Fred and George keep trying to listen in but they only pick up bits and pieces."

"At least you've _been _here," said Harry grumpily, "I've been stuck at Privet Drive all summer!"

"We wanted to write to you," said Hermione hurriedly, seeing that Harry's temper was rising, "We really did but they wouldn't let us. Dumbledore said it wouldn't be safe."

"In case the Death Eaters intercepted the owls?" said Harry.

"Not just them," said Ginny darkly.

"What do you mean?" said Harry

"The Ministry of Magic," said Ron, "They're watching Dumbledore: having him followed, that sort of thing. Dad says Fudge doesn't trust him; he thinks Dumbledore's angling for his job."

"What?!" said Harry, "Why is he wasting time on doing stupid things like that with You-Know-Who on the loose?"

"Well… you see, the thing is," said Hermione hesitantly, afraid to provoke another outburst, "He… Fudge doesn't believe You-Know-Who _is _back."

"What?!" said Harry. He was on his feet now, almost shaking with anger.

"Please Harry, try and understand," said Hermione desperately, "You don't know what it's been like. You're the _only _witness Dumbledore has."

"I'm the… what?"

"You're the only person who's come forward to say that You-Know-Who is back," said Ginny, "No-one's seen, or heard anything since June: no sightings, no Dark Mark, no attacks; nothing."

"But he _is _back," said Harry.

"We believe you Harry, we all do," said Hermione earnestly, "And so does Dumbledore. But Fudge is scared. A lot of weird stuff has happened over the summer, not Dark but… weird. And Fudge is scared that he'll lose his job. He thinks Dumbledore is plotting to take over. So he's been suppressing a _lot_ information."

"That explains the _Prophet_," said Harry grimly.

"Exactly," said Hermione, "Fudge wants people to think everything is alright. And so long as You-Know-Who stays quiet, they will. Even Fudge won't be able to keep it quiet when he makes his move."

"Don't you have _any _idea what he's up to?" Harry asked desperately. It felt like such an anti-climax, to find that his friends knew no more about than him.

"We think Dumbledore has," said Ron, "And most of the Order. Sirius keeps trying to tell us but the others tell him to be quiet before he actually says anything."

Harry sat down on the bed again, his anger spent.

"Then what's the point?" he said morosely, "What's the point in me being here? I might as well be stuck in Privet Drive."

"Harry, Sirius didn't invite you here so you could join the Order," said Hermione, with great patience, "Fred and George are of age and they aren't allowed to join! Sirius brought you here so that you could spend some time together, so that _we _could spend some time together before we go back to Hogwarts where he can't visit."

Harry nodded. He could see the sense in Hermione's words but they did not make him feel much better.

At about six o'clock Mrs Weasley called up the stairs for them to come down for dinner. The meal was served at a long wooden table that had been conjured into the middle of the great kitchen. Mr and Mrs Weasley were there with the twins, along with Sirius, Lupin and Tonks. Joining them was a dirty, shifty-looking wizard who introduced himself as Mundungus Fletcher. Beside him sat a tall black wizard with a bald head named Kinglsey Shacklebolt. There were also Professor McGonagall and the horribly scarred Alastor Moody, the ex-Auror.

The food was predictably splendid, having been prepared by Mrs Weasley, and the conversation lively, although Harry was disappointed to note that the adults deliberately avoided talking about the Order or its activities. It was only when the deserts had been finished and Mrs Weasley was distracted with the washing up that Harry and the others were able to snatch a few moments to speak with Sirius.

"No, You-Know-Who hasn't been seen yet," he said, keeping his voice low, "He's in hiding. None of his Death Eaters have gone to ground yet, either. They're still going about their business like normal but they're being watched, don't worry about that. As soon as something happens, we'll know about it."

"What else are you doing?" Harry asked, hoping to find a way that he could help.

"If you mean me personally, not a great deal," Sirius replied with more than a touch of bitterness, "I'm still a wanted man, remember? I can't go outside so I stay here and keep house. But if you mean the Order, then a lot. Nothing too open, of course, not with the Ministry and the Death Eaters watching our every move. But things _are _happening."

"What like?" said Harry eagerly.

"Watching, mainly, and gathering our strength. If a new war does come, and we think it will, we're going to be ready. Dumbledore's got big plans in that department."

"Do you not have any idea what Vol – what You-Know-Who is planning?" Harry asked.

Sirius leant in close, dropping his voice to little more than a whisper. There was a gleeful expression on his face, as if was enjoying the very act of sharing a secret.

"We're not certain, of course, but I think Dumbledore's pretty sure. He thinks You-Know-Who is looking for something: something that he didn't have the last time. It's in…"

"Sirius that is _enough_!" Mrs Weasley snapped, bringing her hand down on the table beside them, "Merlin, they're only children, Sirius!"

Harry flushed. Only children' were they? Could children have defended the Philosopher's Stone, he wondered? Could they have slain a basilisk; saved Sirius's life; fought Voldemort; cheatedDeath_ to his face_?

"Harry is fifteen, Molly," said Sirius coolly, "He can handle it."

"He – is – not– _James_!" said Mrs Weasley, voice rising as she spoke until his father's name was almost a scream.

"I think you lot had better go upstairs," said Lupin meaningfully, "The meeting is about to start."

Reluctant to leave but quite glad to avoid another fight, Harry and the others quickly exited the kitchen, leaving Mrs Weasley and Sirius glaring daggers at each other.

In the hallway they passed Professor Snape, who had evidently just arrived. He spared them no more than the most cursory of looks as he swept past and into the kitchen.

"He never eats with us," Ron explained as they climbed the stairs, "Can't say I'm sorry. Greasy git."

"Where are you lot going?" Fred asked the others as they began to climb the second flight of stairs, "Don't you want to know what's going on down there?"

He and George were holding a pair of what resembled long, fleshy strings. At the end of each string was a disturbingly realistic human ear.

"Extendable Ears," Fred said proudly, "Copyright Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Soon to be available from all good jokes shops. Hopefully."

"I thought your Mum confiscated those?" said Hermione.

"So we made some more," said George, taking up position on the landing, directly above the kitchen door.

"There'll be hell to pay if they catch you again," said Ginny, grinning.

The twins returned the grin as they lowered the Extendable Ears over the balcony and down to the first floor. Harry watched as the strings grew longer and longer until they touched the carpet on the hall floor. Each twin gave their string a little shake and the ears drifted sideways until they came to rest against the kitchen door.

"Good, they haven't charmed the door," Fred whispered, giving them the thumbs up.

George had produced his wand. With a tap, he amplified the sound coming from his end of the Extendable Ear, so that everyone on the landing could hear what was being said. The voices were tinny but quite clear.

Snape was speaking:

"… dangerous. The Ministry is watching all the staff as it is. This will only give Fudge more ammunition to use against him."

"And what would you have him do, Severus?" replied McGonagall, "Send them to live here, all cooped up together in one house?"

"I wouldn't mind," said Sirius, "It would be nice to have some company other than that wretched Kreacher…"

"There was no other way to protect them," McGonagall continued as if Sirius had not spoken.

"But to employ them at the _school_?" said Snape.

"Better than being picked up by the Ministry," said Shacklebolt, "The rumour is that the Unspeakables are to take charge of the investigations…"

Harry frowned at Ron and Hermione. They both shrugged.

McGonagall was speaking again:

"This is beside the point. Who Dumbledore chooses to employ at Hogwarts is his own business. We are here on the business of the Order."

The sound went dead. Fred and George tapped the strings with their wands once or twice to no effect. Harry soon realised the problem had a much simpler cause. Leaning over the balcony he could see Hermione's cat Crookshanks sitting on the hall carpet, gnawing at the fleshy strings with relish.

While Fred and George swore at Crookshanks, and Hermione prevented them from throwing things at him, Harry reflected on the fragment of conversation he had overheard. Who were the new staff members at Hogwarts? Who were the Unspeakables, and why would they be interested in the new teachers? He was getting tired of secrets and mysteries and term had not even started yet.


	9. New Arrivals at Hogwarts

**Chapter 9: New Arrivals at Hogwarts**

The rest of the summer was uneventful, if entertaining. Well, for the most part. Harry had to admit, cleaning a magical house was even less fun than at the Dursleys; at least there all he had to worry about were particularly stubborn stains. There were no venomous flying _things_ lurking in the curtains to pounce on the unwary, or cupboards full of bewitched items that sent you to sleep, or made your ears fall off, or something equally inventive. Nevertheless, despite all this, Harry did manage to have fun. It was nice to be around his friends again, and they helped take his mind off the graveyard… when he was awake, at least.

Actually, his dreams of the graveyard were becoming less frequent, replaced by dreams of an odd corridor, the door at the end always just out of reach. They puzzled him, and worse still, he always woke up in a bad mood after them. After Hermione had snapped at him for his grumpy nature, Harry had learnt to take long showers to get into a better frame of mind.

Despite repeated attempts, they had utterly failed to find out anything else from the Order's meetings. Mrs Weasley had discovered Fred and George making more Extendable Ears, and had expressed her displeasure in her own forceful manner. They had all been on best behaviour ever since. Sirius had been mostly silent on the subject as well, although he had hinted that this was more out of a lack of anything to tell them than anything else. Harry would rather have been kept in the dark, if he was honest; the thought that Voldemort was out there and nothing was being done against him was incredibly depressing.

Equally depressing, in its own way, was the continued absence of the Death of Rats. This had been more pronounced since its first appearance at Grimmauld Place; most of the people there, having met Harry before, or worked at Hogwarts, recognised Harry's skeletal friend. They might have been puzzled by it, but they weren't scared.

Sadly, the same could not be said for those who had not met him.

When Harry had walked into the dining room one evening, chattering happily to the rat on his shoulder, a deathly hush had fallen across the room. Harry had looked up to see Tonks, Shacklebolt and Mundungus Fletcher staring at him, goggle-eyed. Just as he opened his mouth to ask what the matter was, he had to duck – and the Death of Rats had to leap to safety – to avoid being hit by two simultaneous curses from both Aurors. It had taken some time to convince them that 'Ratty' wasn't a threat. However, Harry had been unable to convince his friend that the others were not a threat to _him_; Harry had not seen the rat since.

Soon though, the start of term rolled round, and Harry and his friends were once more on their way to Platform 9¾…

* * *

"Come on, get a move on! We shouldn't spend more time than necessary out in the open!"

Mad-Eye Moody was striding in front of them, his wooden leg thudding against the floor of the station. Harry exchanged a wry glance with Hermione, rolling his eyes at her. They were becoming thoroughly bored of Moody's 'Constant Vigilance!' He had insisted on organising an extremely complicated route to the station and they were running late. The group of friends pushed their bags through the fake wall hurriedly, Moody keeping an eye on them as they did so. Harry was followed through by Sirius: his godfather was currently in his Animagus form, which he swore no-one would recognise. Harry wasn't convinced but it was nice to have him there anyway.

Once they had their bags loaded, Harry stepped back off the train to say goodbye to everyone. He was treated to a bone-crushing hug from Mrs Weasley, along with a packet of corned beef sandwiches for the journey. He fought his way free, smiling his thanks at her, and then was beckoned over to the waiting room by Moody. Sirius was waiting inside, and he changed back into his human form as the door closed. He stepped towards Harry with a smile.

"Just wanted to say goodbye before you head off kiddo. Keep in touch, you hear! I want to hear from you regularly – although you'd probably better address them to Moony, just in case. Don't want anyone getting suspicious, do we?"

Harry frowned. "Who on earth would be reading my mail? The only people who might do are Death Eaters, and they already know we're in contact, surely?"

Sirius shrugged. "I really don't know, to be honest with you. I'm just passing on some advice Dumbledore gave me. I rather got the impression that he knew more than he was letting on, which came as a shock, I'm sure you can imagine…"

Harry chuckled, and then pulled Sirius into a hug. "I'm going to miss you Padfoot."

"And I'm going to miss you too pup," Sirius responded fondly, ruffling Harry's hair, making it even messier. "Just remember I love you, ok?"

"I know," Harry replied with a grin.

"Good lad. Right, you'd better get going before you miss the train. I'll see you at Christmas, and remember, regular letters!"

Harry didn't respond, too busy running for the train, which was building up steam to leave the platform. He leapt onto the train, ignoring the angry look a porter gave him, and walked along the carriages, looking for his friends. He found them eventually, and was pleased to see that Luna and Neville had joined them. He hadn't seen Luna since the previous term and her letters were generally a little… unintelligible.

"Hey there," Neville greeted him as he sat down. "Looking forward to getting back? I bet summer must have been a bit…" He tailed off, clearly unsure how to put it. He somehow contrived to combine embarrassment and concern into one facial expression, which Harry thought rather impressive.

"It was a bit nightmarish, yes," Harry finished for him. "It got better towards the end though."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, no one knowing quite what to say. Then Luna broke in, her voice preternaturally calm as always:

"My summer was very interesting. My father uncovered a conspiracy within the Ministry."

The others looked at each other, resigned looks on their faces. Harry took the bait. "Really? And what's going to happen?"

"The Ministry has formed an alliance with the Adipose to become a secret police force. There are dreadful ramifications, I'm sure you can imagine. Daddy is working to bring it down, but it's a tough job."

Harry looked over at Hermione, mouthing _Adipose?_ at her, but his friend just shrugged in exasperation. Clearly, they were something Mr Lovegood had made up. Neville was looking at Luna as if he was a little scared of her; Harry guessed he could understand that. They were sitting next to each other, and with her strange pronouncements and upside down magazine, that wasn't a good position for the uninitiated. Sure enough, Neville soon stood up, muttering something about going to find Seamus and Dean. As soon as the door was shut, Harry told them what Sirius had said to him. The news clearly worried Hermione.

"It sounds like they think someone at school might be reading your mail Harry, and that's not something a student could do. Do you think there's something wrong with the new Defence teacher?"

"What on earth makes you think that? I mean, we've had possessed professors, Death Eaters, idiots and werewolves – not that Lupin wasn't a great bloke and everything, but still – why would you think we might get a dodgy teacher this time around?" Ron's sarcasm was heavy, but he had a point.

"Yeah, well, just keep an eye out until we hear more. Dumbledore will have to be honest if it's going to affect us directly – "

"Good _morning_ ladies and gentlemen! And how are we this fine morning? Might I interest you in some food? Hot sausage? Inna bun? Fill you up a treat, one sickle a piece, and that's cuttin' me own throat!"

They stared incredulously at the intruder, a bizarre looking man with a tray round his neck. Steam was rising from some of the compartments in it, wafting a strangely appealing smell of sausage and onions towards them. The man was smoking a foul smelling cigar, and seemed to have a sausage stuck behind his ear. He was wearing a check suit and looked like a rat.

"Erm… You're not the usual person," Harry pointed out, and immediately felt an idiot for doing so.

"No my friend, I am not. Dibbler's the name, C.M.O.T. Dibbler. Just started: saw a market that needed filling, so I took it. Sausage inna bun?" He shoved the tray under Harry's nose, and flipped a lid open. Harry and his friends leaned over, looking at the sausages tentatively. They looked… odd.

"What kind of sausages are they?" Hermione asked, her expression suggesting she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"Pig! What else?"

"Pig? Don't you mean pork?"

Dibbler looked shifty. "Well, manner of speaking. Pork is pig, pig is pork, right?"

"Well no, not really. Pork is a particular cut – "

"Look miss, they're genuine pig. You want one or not?"

Hermione took one last look, then sat back, crossing her arms and shutting her eyes, as if that would block the memory. Ron and Harry looked at each other, and handed over a sickle each. Dibbler snatched the money from their hands, and whipped two sausages into buns, thrusting them towards Harry and Ron. Before they could say anything, he had disappeared; a moment later, his sales pitch could be heard from the next compartment. Harry looked dubiously at his food, and took a small bite. He chewed, slowly. He walked over to the window, and opened it. He spat, and threw the remnants of his sausage inna bun after it.

"That bad?" Hermione asked, stunned.

Harry just nodded, unable to find the words, and looked at Ron. His friend was chewing away happily. Harry's jaw dropped. Ron looked at him.

"What?"

* * *

There were some strange people sitting at the staff table. Stranger than usual, that was. Three women, all dressed like stereotypical Halloween witches. One was young, with a mass of black hair, and on the large side. The second was older, fatter, and looked like she would be great fun. The third looked like McGonagall with the sense of humour removed. At the other end of the table, there were a few old men, all with long, bushy beards, and all looked fairly fat. There were two exceptions. One could not be called fairly fat; he was almost as wide as Hagrid. The second was bulky, but gave the impression that it was muscle. He looked commanding, and very physical. The man closest to him was quivering slightly, and kept tapping a wooden box nervously. And next to Dumbledore's chair was a hideously ugly woman, who looked very much like a toad. For the most part, she was staring straight ahead, at the students, but periodically, she stared at the two crowds of strangers, with unconcealed hatred and anger. Dumbledore was surely aware of this but he ignored it, smiling serenely at his students.

After a while, Professor McGonagall strode in, leading the new first years to be sorted. With great ceremony she placed the ancient Sorting Hat on its stool and stood back for its annual song. The rip in the brim opened, and the Hat cleared its throat.

"Ahem… _You can bugger the bear, if you do it with care,  
in the winter, when he is asleep in his lair,  
Though I would not advise it in spring or in fall--  
but the hedgehog can never be buggered at all."_

"_Silencio!"_

McGonagall's spell silenced the Hat but it was clearly still singing. There were a few shocked giggles throughout the hall, although most people were too stunned to laugh. In contrast, the middle of the three new women at the staff table was stifling great roars of laughter. Her younger companion had her head in her hands, as if embarrassed. The older one – who Harry suspected was the leader of the trio – was glaring furiously at the laughing woman. Professor Dumbledore stood up, still serene, although Harry thought he could see his lips twitching in a smile behind his beard.

"Perhaps we should forgo the song this year Minerva. Please, continue."

McGonagall stood there in flustered silence for a moment then pulled herself together. The Sorting continued but few people were really paying attention now. They were all watching the new arrivals, who had clearly had something to do with the Hat's song. After the Sorting had finished Dumbledore stood up for his usual start of year speech. Harry tuned out for most of it, having heard it all before, but he was jerked into paying attention at the end.

"… And finally, I'm sure you've noticed the new additions to our staff this year. Taking Defence Against the Dark Arts this year will be Professor Dolores Umbridge," here, Dumbledore nodded at the toad like woman, who scowled at the students. "Professor Umbridge has a great deal of er… practical experience, having worked for the Ministry for several years."

Harry sat up straight, looking at Hermione intently. Clearly, they had been right!

"In addition, we have two groups on – study exchanges. To my left, we have Archchancellor Ridcully and his staff, who are on sabbatical to find out how we do things at Hogwarts." The group of elderly, bearded men waved jovially. "And to my right, we have three witches from Lancre, here again on sabbatical – Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, and Miss Agnes Nitt." Harry looked at the trio of witches, pinning the names to faces. "They will all be assisting in various lessons, and generally observing life in the school – I trust you will all be respectful and helpful at all times. You never know what they might teach you…"

* * *

A/N: The verse of the Hedgehog Song is from .. There are numerous other versions out there if you don't like that one.


	10. Practical Witchcraft

Chapter 10: Practical Witchcraft 

Bert Bottomley enjoyed his job. Most people would not have cherished the post of security guard at the British Telecom tower but Bert did. He wanted a quiet life. He came to work, daydreamed his shift away and went home again. At weekends he went to watch his local team get beaten by better ones. It was a quiet, unremarkable life but Bert enjoyed it.

This morning however, he was definitely not enjoying it. It was altogether too full of incident for him. The incident that was commanding his attention at that precise moment was the sword held at his throat.

"All clear?" asked an unseen speaker.

"All clear, Cohen," replied a voice at Bert's ear.

Five ancient men wearing very little and carrying battered medieval weapons appeared in the lobby. They appeared so suddenly that Bert would have sworn that they had simply dropped out of the ceiling. He gave a little jolt of surprise and the blade at his throat drew a trickle of blood.

"Alright lad, hold still," said the voice at his ear, "We ain't gonna hurt you."

"What's your name, henchman?" asked one of the old men. He grinned at Bert, displaying a set of dentures that flashed like diamonds.

"Henchman? I don't know what you mean! I've never henched in my life!" said Bert, trying to hold as still as possible.

"Come on, lad, you must know the drill," said the man with the shining teeth, "It's nothing personal, you understand. We're here the kill your master, so if you'd just unlock the gates we'll get on with it, alright?"

"My… my master? You mean Mr. Higgins?" said Bert.

"Eh? What'd he say?" screeched one of the old men.

"He said Mr. Higgins, Hamish!" shouted another of them.

"Eh?!"

"MR. HIGGINS!"

"Who's 'iggins? I'm 'amish, me!"

"Hey, Cohen, I thought this one was called Voldemort?"

"Must be one of those what's-your-names…? Sillyderms?"

"Pseudonyms?"

"Yeah, that's it! Right lad," said Cohen, turning back to Bert, "Take us to your Dark Lord Higgins!"

Bert was now convinced that he was in the presence of six escaped lunatics. Basic training for security guards does not cover such situations, so Bert decided to play along until he could raise the alarm.

"Y-you want to see Mr. Higgins?" he asked.

"That's right. Now we're getting somewhere!" said Cohen, beaming, "So be a good lad and unlock those gates, will you?"

"What… you mean the lifts?" said Bert.

The old men did not appear to have seen a lift before and were greatly surprised when the doors opened at the push of a button.

"Magic."

"Yeah, definitely magic."

"Ooh, posh!"

"Yeah, the best most Lords can manage these days is a spiral staircase."

There then followed a five minute debate on how to tackle the challenge of the lift. The old men seemed disinclined to trust it but, when Bert revealed that there was no other way up the tower, they resigned themselves to the possible danger.

"You're goin' first, in case of enchantments and what not," Cohen explained as Bert was ushered towards the lift at sword point.

It was difficult to squeeze seven people into the lift but they managed it eventually.

"Err, which floor?" asked Bert, finger poised above the buttons.

"Top floor, of course," said Cohen, "Who ever heard of a Dark Lord living anywhere _but _the top floor?"

Mr. Higgins's office was not on the top floor but Bert did not argue the point. The old men spent the journey glaring suspiciously at the lift walls, as if expecting them to jump forward and attack them at any moment.

The lift doors reopened and the old men leapt out, brandishing their weapons. What followed was a haphazard search through every office, cubicle, kitchen and bathroom on the floor. Anyone they met was interrogated to reveal the location of the 'Dark Lord Higgins', then added to the growing group of prisoners being shepherded around the tower. Bert was terrified of what the old men would do when they eventually found Mr. Higgins but, to his relief, they merely fell to bickering among themselves.

"How was I to know?" protested Cohen, "You all agreed that it made sense. It's a bloody great tower! Where else is the Dark Lord going to live?"

Some of the old men wanted to examine the walls for secret doors or make a floor-by-floor search for their elusive 'Dark Lord' but at length they decided that he probably was not there after all. Having bound the other staff members with power cords and gagged them with their own socks, the old men forced Bert to take them back down to the lobby.

The first thing Bert did after the old men had left was to make himself a cup of tea. Then he phoned the police. He knew how to deal with a crisis.

Shortly after the police arrived an old fashioned black Rolls Royce pulled up outside the tower. Six men in plain black suits climbed out of the back seat, which was more than the car was actually capable of seating. They entered the lobby while a detective was questioning Bert about the old men who had taken him hostage. The men in the black suits drew short wooden wands from their jackets.

That evening, when Bert's wife asked him how his day at work had been, his only reply was:

"Y'know, I honestly can't remember! Mustn't have been very interesting."

* * *

During the first week of term at Hogwarts the sole topic of conversation was the new staff members. The timetables had been rearranged to include supplementary lessons, taken by the new teachers. Hermione was very cross about this, convinced that it would affect her O., but everyone else was excited to see what the new teachers were like.

An extra-curricular class called 'Advanced Chanting', under Professor Nitt, was being offered to all interested students. The take up was low at first but grew rapidly when word spread that Professor Nitt's singing could not only shatter glass but also repair it. There was even talk of an official Hogwarts choir being formed.

Harry had not felt confident enough in his voice to attend Advanced Chanting but he had attended a highly entertaining lesson on 'Thaumaturgical Studies'. The lesson had begun with a hugely fat wizard waddling into the classroom ten minutes late, muttering to himself:

"Bloody students! You travel halfway across the multiverse and you still can't get away from them."

He had then eased himself into the chair behind the desk at the front of the room, turned a disgruntled eye on the class and barked:

"Well, what're you staring at me for? You've got books haven't you? Get on with it!"

He had then leant back and fallen into an impenetrable sleep. The class had taken this as an excuse to run riot and there are no classes in the multiverse that riot as well as a class of Hogwarts students. Hermione had valiantly attempted to obey their teacher's instruction but was forced to give up when Seamus and Dean charmed the desks to imitate a herd of cattle and tried to corral them in a nearby courtyard. Calm was only restored by the combined intervention of Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, with Filch and Mrs. Norris in tow. Seamus and Dean had both received detention but the staff's ire was mainly reserved for their teacher, who they found still asleep with confetti in his beard and his hat draped in party streamers.

That evening at dinner the fifth years had swapped notes with other students and found their experiences of Thaumaturgical Studies to be much the same. Fred and George said that they had passed by the staff room earlier that week and heard some of the older members of staff shouting about 'incompetence' and 'circus acts'. So it was with great interest and excitement that Harry and his classmates looked forward to their first lesson in 'Practical Witchcraft', first thing after lunch on Thursday.

The fifth years entered the classroom to discover the tall, stern faced witch glaring at the blackboard as if it had personally offended her. Seated on the desk with a long clay pipe clasped between her teeth was the short witch with a face like a wrinkled apple.

"Wotcha," she said, removing her pipe and giving the class a cheerful wave, "I'm Nanny Ogg and this is Mistress Weatherwax."

Granny Weatherwax did not turn round to acknowledge the class but continued to stare at the blackboard.

"Where do the words go when you rub 'em off?" she muttered, "I don't hold with it: writing words down an' them rubbin' them out. 'Tain't natural."

"Right, can anybody tell me what we're supposed to do now?" Nanny asked the class.

"Err… take our seats?" suggested Hermione.

"Good girl! Take a punt for Gryffindor!" said Nanny happily.

"Don't you mean a 'point'?" drawled Draco Malfoy.

"Yeah, one of them too," said Nanny, nodding earnestly.

"Right," she continued, "who can tell me what we do next?"

A forest of hands shot up, eager to earn easy House points.

"Get out our books?" suggested Ernie Macmillan.

"Right! You do that," said Nanny, "Point to Hufflepuff."

"Books?" Granny Weatherwax rounded on the class, "No one said anything about books."

She darted forward and seized Hermione's copy of _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade Five)_.

"Books!" exclaimed Granny as she flicked through the pages, "Do these people expect them to learn witching from _books_?"

"But Professor Weatherwax…" said Hermione.

"_Mistress_ Weatherwax!" Granny snapped, "Detention!"

Hermione coloured but made no reply. There was some angry muttering from the other students.

"I say…" began Ernie Macmillan.

"Quiet! Detention!" said Granny.

"You've got the hang of this teachin' quickly, Esme," said Nanny Ogg.

"Thank you, Gytha," said Granny, an immovable rock amidst the tides of sarcasm.

"Learnin' from books," Granny sneered, "I can't be havin' with that."

She crossed over to the window, opened it and threw the textbook out with an almost disdainful flick of her wrist.

"There's gonna be no books in _this _classroom," she said, rounding on the class, "You're going to learn witching the proper way: by doin', not readin'."

The class perked up at this. Practical lessons were always more interesting than theory.

They were both disappointed and bemused to find that this was not what Granny had in mind. Striding purposefully ahead, she led them out of the classroom and into the school corridors. They moved along in fits and starts as Granny interrogated every passing student, staff member and ghost until someone revealed to her the location of the castle kitchen gardens.

The gardens were behind the castle, not far from the greenhouses. They were Hogwarts' main source of food and, as such, were extensive. As well as vegetables, the castle kept pigs, goats and cows. The House Elves who tended the gardens looked up as the class emerged from the castle postern gate, startled at this rare intrusion into their private domain.

"Go on you lot, clear off. I'm teachin', I am!" Granny announced. The House Elves exchanged confused looks, shrugged their shoulders and vanished with a loud 'crack'.

Granny stood, arms folded, and considered the castle gardens like a general considering the ground before a battle.

"Hmm, not bad I suppose," she conceded.

Granny turned to address the fifth years.

"Right you lot," she said, "Time for you to start learning proper witchin'. Now I don't normally hold with young wizards doing witchin'; witchin' and wizardin' are two completely different things, and that's how it's supposed to be. But Dumbledore says you're all to be taught together an' I suppose it won't do you wizards any harm to do an honest day's work for once."

Granny began to divide the class into small groups. One group was sent to muck out the animals, another to check them for signs of illness. Others were to weed and hoe the vegetable patches, and others to finish harvesting the winter crop. More than a few voices were raised in protest at this, and even more when Granny confiscated their wands, but once she had placed half the class in detention the fifth years set to work, some sullenly, some quite enjoying the break from study.

Harry, Hermione and Ron were among the unfortunate individuals sent to muck out the animals. Hermione was furious but her muttered complaints faded as her zeal for academic work shifted to the simple task of shovelling dung.

"How do the House Elves manage to do this every day?" Ron gasped as he raised yet another full wheelbarrow destined for the compost heap.

"I don't think it's all that bad," said Harry, leaning on his shovel for a moment to stare into the clear autumn sky.

It was true. While Granny Weatherwax stalked up and down the gardens glaring at the students, Nanny Ogg would sit and chat with them, offering advice and encouragement. She even taught some of them a verse or two of the song they had heard the Sorting Hat sing at the start of term feast. Harry had never known his grandparents but he felt that Nanny was, in some way, everybody's grandmother. It was like magic.

The two hours allotted for the lesson were long past when the fifth years finally trailed back up to the castle. They were filthy but most of them agreed that it had been an enjoyable lesson, even if they could not fathom what it had to do with witchcraft.

The only truly sour face in the group was Draco Malfoy. He had made a comment about the lesson being good preparation for Ron's future career. Shortly afterwards Harry accidentally bumped into Draco, knocking him to the floor. This was followed by a further accident, in which Ron tripped over his own feet and upended a wheelbarrow full of manure over Draco's head. The other Gryffindors agreed that it was a tragic accident and not amusing in the slightest.


	11. Defence

**Chapter 11: Defence**

Harry looked around curiously at the passageway. The architecture was like nothing he had ever seen before; the walls were lined with black stone of some kind, and with a faint green glow to them, as if they were lit by some inner light. He walked slowly along the passage, the glow from the walls the only guide to where he was going. It seemed to go on forever, and the only thing keeping him going was a strange sense of longing. He didn't know where he was, or where he was going, but he could feel that there was something at the end of the passage that he wanted, greatly. He didn't question this desire.

After what seemed like hours, but could only have been minutes, he reached a stout door. It took him merely a glance to work out that there seemed to be no way through it – there was no immediately obvious door handle, and it was far too thick to push open. He stood there, running his hands over it. The stone on the door was cool to the touch, despite the glow. After a moment, he stood back, glaring at it angrily. Why couldn't it just open?

There was a shout, and Harry woke up with a jolt.

Looking around him blearily, Harry realised that someone was shouting outside. Stumbling over to the window, still half asleep, he looked out into the pre-dawn light. One of the visiting wizards from the welcoming feast was sitting by the lake. It looked rather as if he had been pushed over by something, and he seemed to be wearing primitive running gear. Harry opened the window to see if he could hear what was being said.

"… Ye Gods that thing was huge! Sportsman's dream! BURSARRR! Where is he, got to do everything myself…"

The wizard stood up, and Harry realised it was the muscular one – the Archchancellor, had it been? He gesticulated at the lake in excitement, and Harry realised that the giant squid was poking its tentacles and head out of the water. The Archchancellor started bellowing again.

"I'll get yer yet, see if I don't! Just let me get my rod…"

With that, the wizard jogged back up to the castle. Harry shut the window, shaking his head in bewilderment, then paused. The wizard had been down by the lake, yet had woken him up in Gryffindor tower. Merlin, the man could shout. Harry pitied his colleagues. He flopped back onto the bed and was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

When he woke up again, he did not remember his dream.

* * *

The first Friday of term saw Harry and his classmates venturing towards the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom in mixed spirits. On the one hand, Professor Umbridge had known links to the Ministry, and as far as Harry and his friends were concerned, that was not an especially good thing. On the other hand, all the other new teachers seemed to be very interesting; they were hoping that the trend would continue.

Sadly, this was not to be the case.

Professor Umbridge was not in the classroom when they arrived, so the class took their seats, chattering happily to each other and musing about what she would be teaching them. They didn't have any textbooks to take out, which they were taking as a hopeful sign. They hadn't used textbooks (on a regular basis) since Lockhart's laughable attempts at teaching, and they all remembered Granny Weatherwax's attitude to books. A teacher not even assigning one seemed promising.

After a few minutes wait, the door to the office at the back of the classroom opened, quietly. For a brief moment, Harry thought that the walls had been painted pink, and it sounded like Umbridge had a pet cat. Then, Umbridge herself stepped into view, clutching her gloriously pink cardigan to her like a suit of armour. There was a smile clamped tightly to her lips, which Harry assumed was supposed to be charming – possibly even pretty, although it would take Polyjuice to turn Umbridge attractive. She trotted down the stairs to the front of the classroom, an expectant hush following in her wake, and once she reached the safety of her desk, she turned to the class and clasped her hands together, gritted teeth showing through her smile.

"Good morning children! And welcome to Defence Against the Dark Arts. I'm sure we will be getting along famously."

The hush took on a less than friendly air. The students could tell when they were being patronised, and they didn't like it. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Hermione folding her arms and crossing her legs tightly, as if by doing so she could physically restrain her contempt. He grinned, and bowed his head to hide it. There was an awkward silence for a moment, as if Umbridge was waiting for a response from them; when none was forthcoming, she drew her wand with a brief scowl, and flicked it. The office door swung open again, and a pile of textbooks soared out. They wound their way carefully amongst the students, a book being deposited on each desk. Harry picked his up and opened it at random. He was astonished to see that there were cartoonish diagrams for the spells; it looked as if it had been written for pre-schoolers. He looked up to find that Hermione had a similar look of horror on her face. His friend's arm shot up into the air, and Umbridge turned towards her with a grimace.

"Yes, miss…?"

"Granger, Professor, Hermione Granger. These textbooks – they're…"

Umbridge raised an eyebrow as Hermione trailed off, trying to think of an appropriate way to put it. Umbridge didn't look quite as ridiculous when she was angry; in fact, she looked weirdly formidable. "They're _what_, Miss Granger?"

"Well, a little… basic?"

At this pronouncement, more of the students flipped their books open. Harry and the other Gryffindors so happened to be sharing the class with the Ravenclaws, and there were audible mutters from their side of the classroom at the childish nature of the books. Umbridge scowled.

"Miss Granger, these textbooks have been Ministry approved; they are eminently suitable for your needs. I realise that you have perhaps not been used to _proper_ teaching thus far in your academic careers, especially in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but – "

"Professor Lupin was a fantastic teacher!" Harry exclaimed indignantly. Umbridge skewered him with a vicious glare.

"I think we all know how much value to place on your opinions, don't we Mister Potter?"

Harry went silent, tensing up in anger. Yes, he knew very well what Umbridge and her former colleagues thought of him. Umbridge smirked at him, and he opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione's restraining hand on his arm held him back. Umbridge turned away from him triumphantly, starting to outline the course aims for the year. They sounded mind-numbingly dull, but it wasn't till Hermione raised her arm again that Harry realised the main problem with them:

"Professor, there's nothing in there about practicing magic – it's all theoretical."

"Your point, Miss Granger? A theoretical knowledge will be sufficient to get you through your exams, which is all you require. Let us be honest, you will hardly need to defend yourself in real life, will you?"

The sheer naivety of this was such that Harry could almost hear the collective jaws hitting the floor. Even leaving aside the fact that the Ministry was denying Voldemort's return, was Fudge now promising an Auror for every wizard and witch in Britain? There were the basic, everyday criminals to deal with, after all. After a moments silence, nearly every student in the room was protesting in outrage, appalled that the Ministry could be so lax. Umbridge looked furious – and a little intimidated – but it was Ron's remark that the class was even more ridiculous than Thaumaturgical Studies earlier in the week that pushed her over the edge. Apparently, being told that her teaching was worse than someone falling asleep in front of a class did not soothe Umbridge's feelings.

"Your new exchange staff are worse than useless Mr Weasley! There is no educational value in any of their lessons, and I will thank you not to mention them in this room again!"

There was a moment of shocked silence, as much to do with the sparks coming out of Umbridge's wand as anything else. Satisfied, Umbridge turned back to the board. Ron leaned over toward Harry and whispered, just loud enough to echo around the room.

"No educational value, maybe, but at least that Weatherwax woman can control a class…"

Umbridge whirled round as Harry returned the grin.

"Yeah, but judging by the books, we won't be learning any more in this class than in Thaumaturgical Studies – I bet you."

"Potter, Weasley, _detention!_"

Harry and Ron fell silent as Umbridge returned to what she called teaching. Hermione was shaking her head in resigned despair, but the two boys grinned at each other. Detention was definitely worth it.

* * *

Later that day, Dolores Umbridge was in an even fouler mood. This wasn't helped by the fact that she was on her way to see Albus Dumbledore; she had never liked the elderly wizard, finding him far too self-righteous. And who in their right mind could possibly think him capable of running a school, for Merlin's sake? The man was well into the advanced stages of senility, you only had to look at the robes he wore to see that. Was everyone else in the magical world blind? At least Cornelius had the decency not to trust the man.

She took a moment to gather herself at the gargoyle. It wouldn't do to let Dumbledore see her in such a state, however little she cared about his opinion. After giving the gargoyle the password ('Caramel fudge' – honestly, the man was insane) she set about climbing the stairs. Walking into his office, she was greeted with the sight of Dumbledore hunched over his desk, some official paperwork in one hand, the other hovering over a bowl of yellow lumps. He picked one out and placed it his mouth with every sign of genuine enjoyment.

Umbridge cleared her throat, and Dumbledore looked up, peering over his spectacles at her. A warm smile spread over his face.

"Dolores! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Umbridge paced towards him, her face set with determination. "Albus, I have come to register – _again_ – the Ministry's displeasure at the continued residence of these… _interlopers_ at Hogwarts. It really is most unacceptable!"

Dumbledore leaned back in his seat with a sigh, and raised his eyes to the heavens. "Dolores, they need somewhere to stay; why should they not stay here? We have plenty of room, and they are hardly a drain on taxpayers expenses here, which I would have thought would be a great delight to Cornelius."

"Dumbledore, you're letting them _teach_! What possible excuse can there be for that?"

Dumbledore winced; Umbridge's voice had definitely been approaching shrill. "As for that, Delores, I am a firm believer in gathering knowledge as and wherever possible. They can teach nothing harmful to our students, so it can only be a boon, in my humble opinion."

"But they certainly aren't teaching them anything worthwhile, are they? Wizards who fall asleep in class, witches who seem more concerned with farming than even basic magic… The Ministry is very concerned about this Albus!"

"Delores, you are not saying anything new to me. I have heard all of this before. They were kind enough to announce themselves to the Ministy, so I do not see why we shouldn't give them a warm welcome."

Umbridge sank into a chair, defeated. That was another thing she hated about Dumbledore. He would never see your side of the argument, despite his professed love of fair-mindedness. "It wouldn't be so bad if they were polite," she grumbled, in low tones. "One of those foul woman told me I was a poor excuse for a witch today!"

"Surely not?" Was he chuckling? His beard was twitching suspiciously… "Why on earth would she say that?"

"She told me that pink 'wasn't proper' for a witch – apparently, we should all be wearing black, and those ridiculous hats! She approves – approves, I say! – of Minerva!"

"Ah, you mean Granny Weatherwax. I understand that she and Minerva have hit it off rather well. International links are _so_ important, aren't they?"

"And her opinion? I presume you have something to say about that?" Umbridge asked, acidly.

"Oh, undoubtedly inaccurate and outdated, of course. But she is entitled to it, is she not?" Dumbledore's poker face was magnificent, and Umbridge gave up. She couldn't face this, not tonight. She got up to leave.

"I warn you Dumbledore, we're keeping a close eye on them. And on that Potter boy as well; he's not what he should be."

"And what should he be, Delores?"

"Loyal! Respectful to the Ministry!"

"I assure you Delores, Harry treats the Ministry with the respect it deserves. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

Umbridge snarled, and slammed the door on her way out.


	12. A Matter of Zoology

Chapter 12: A Matter of Zoology 

After the initial excitement of the first week, life at Hogwarts settled down into the usual routine of lessons, homework and extra-curricular mischief. The new staff members were no longer a novelty and, although their lessons remained highly unusual, they were at least consistent in that. Thaumaturgical Studies was nicknamed 'Extra Break', while many less wholesome nicknames were invented for 'Practical Witchcraft' and Mistress Weatherwax, none of which were ever uttered within two corridors of her.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was also consistent in its banality. Harry had arrived at the second lesson ready for a fight, his pride still sore from the detention he had spent cleaning Umbridge's collection of ghastly, kitten-themed china. To his dismay, the lesson consisted entirely of copying out a chapter from _Defensive Magical Theory_ entitled 'Correct Wand Usage: Posture, Position and Protocol', which included such helpful hints as:

'Grip your wand firmly with the thumb and first two fingers of your wand hand, between two and four inches from the base, dependent upon the length of your wand'.

Hermione's protests about the set work had fallen on deaf ears, serving only to lose Gryffindor five points. The class had set to work with an attitude of sullen resentment, while Umbridge watched them from behind her desk like a smug toad.

Perhaps he should be grateful that Umbridge was not setting them anything challenging Harry reflected as he staggered down the aisle of shelves with a tottering pile of books in his arms. Fifth year at Hogwarts was O.W.L.s year and the teachers were piling on the work so heavily that Harry and his friends had all but set up camp in the library. Right now he, Ron and Hermione were crammed around one table to research three essays, all due within the week: one for Charms, one for Transfiguration and a predictably nasty one for Potions.

"Can someone please explain to me why 'Who cares?' is not an acceptable answer to an essay question?" Ron grumbled as he pushed aside yet another unhelpful textbook.

Hermione rolled her eyes and began to lecture Ron in a furious whisper about the importance of coursework in a well-rounded education. Harry grinned, shook his head and unrolled his parchment, ready to make notes on the practical application of Transfiguration in an office environment. The Death of Rats was sitting on the table beside him, nibbling contentedly on a piece of cheese. It seemed to be on what Harry had come to regard as its 'day off', when it was able to pay Harry a visit.

"Here you go," Harry said, handing the Death of Rats his blunt quill, "Could you sharpen this for me, please?"

The Death of Rats scowled, which is a real achievement for a creature with no eyebrows.

"Look, while you're here you might as well make yourself useful!" Harry said.

SQUEAK said the Death of Rats, snatching the quill and flourishing its scythe.

"Shh!" Ron said, waving his hands furiously at Hermione and Harry. He gestured towards the door. Umbridge had just entered. She was looking more flustered these days; her cardigan was lopsided, and stray hairs waved free from her meticulously arranged bun. She crossed over to the issue desk and drummed her fingers on the top.

"Madam Pince! Madam Pince?" she called irritably.

A long red arm rose up from behind the desk. A brown, leathery hand waved at her.

"What in the – ?!"

Umbridge leant over the desk.

"Ook!"

Umbridge screamed and leapt back as if she had been stung. A large, male orang-utan climbed on to the desk. His smile was wide and friendly.

Harry and his friends avoided one another's gaze, trying desperately to suppress their giggles. Umbridge had clearly not encountered the new Librarian before, who was now sharing the job with Madam Pince.

"Madam Pince! Madam Pince!" Umbridge shouted indignantly.

"You!" she said, rounding on the nearest student, "Tell me, where is Madam Pince? And _why _is there a monkey in the lib - ?"

THWACK!

Harry whipped round. Umbridge was lying on the floor, hair askew, with the Librarian crouched over her, his fangs bared. There was a flash of light as Umbridge cast a spell at him. The Librarian skittered back, shrieking. Umbridge scrambled to her feet and sprinted for the door. The Librarian followed, still shrieking furiously, a stream of delighted students in his wake, Harry, Ron and Hermione among them.

Umbridge raced through the corridors, with the Librarian pursuing her on all fours. More students burst from classroom doorways as they passed to join the chase. Umbridge eventually took refuge in the Great Hall, clinging to the statue of Godric Gryffindor. The Librarian sat at the foot of the statue, screaming at her and dodging her poorly aimed spells. The students formed a great ring around the statue and egged him on, until Professor McGonagall arrived.

"_What _is the meaning of this?" she demanded. Students scattered like pigeons before a cat. In moments the only people left in the Hall were McGonagall, Umbridge, still clutching the statue, and the Librarian, squatting beneath.

"Ook?" he said innocently.

"Professor McGonagall, your wand! Draw your wand! It is a wild beast!" Umbridge squeaked.

The Librarian shuffled forward and offered McGonagall a banana that he appeared to have conjured out of thin air.

"Err, no thank you," said McGonagall politely, "Mr… err, Librarian, would you be so kind as to return to your workplace?"

"Ook" said the Librarian with a shrug, knuckling his way back down the corridor.

"This is an outrage!" Umbridge squawked as McGonagall helped her down, "An absolute outrage! I shall be informing the Minister _immediately_!"

She shrugged off McGonagall's hand without a word of thanks and bustled away.

McGonagall sighed. This was going to cause trouble.

* * *

The dream was longer this time. Harry was in an unfamiliar room, so high and wide that you could have fitted a cathedral inside it. In the distance he could see a group of golden figures standing in a pool of water. He padded across the tiled floor towards a pair of wrought gold gates.

A wizard in dark blue Auror's robes was sitting behind a desk on the left. The sign above him read 'Security'. He did not seem to see Harry. Harry drew his wand and, having placed the Auror under the Imperius Curse, sent him strolling away. Harry then turned his attention to the gate. The golden chain securing them uncoiled at a touch from his wand. Harry pushed one of the gates aside and slipped through. He was now in a smaller, unlit hallway lined with lifts, each behind its own golden grille. Harry unlocked the nearest one and stepped inside. Another touch of his wand and the lift was speeding downwards.

It came to a halt on the ninth floor. Harry now found himself in a familiar corridor. The black stones still glowed with an unhealthy green light. Harry smiled hungrily as he moved forward, heading for the plain black door at the far end. There was something behind it that he wanted very badly. Soon it would be his; very soon.

Harry woke suddenly. His bed sheets were clammy with sweat. He lay awake, replaying the dream over again in his mind's eye. Unlike most dreams, this one did not fade from his woken mind. The details; the golden sheen on the grilles; the sound of the Auror's footsteps; the cool air in the corridor, they remained sharp, as if they were a recent memory. Harry did not get much sleep that night.

The next morning, he told Ron and Hermione about his dream on the way down to breakfast.

"You used the Imperius Curse?" Hermione said, frowning.

"I didn't mean to! I was… sort of watching myself do it, like I wasn't in control," said Harry hotly.

"I'm not accusing you of anything," Hermione said quickly, "but I don't think it's common for people to dream about using the Unforgivables."

"So what are you saying? That Harry secretly wants to be a Dark wizard?" said Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I don't _know_. Nobody really understands dreams, especially wizards' dreams. Sometimes they mean something and sometimes they don't. Sometimes people _think _there's some deep meaning to their dreams when all they've got is indigestion, like that old fraud Trelawney"

"Any idea why you were dreaming about the Ministry?" Ron asked Harry.

"The what?"

"The Ministry of Magic. It sounds like that's where you were, from what you said," said Ron, "My dad's taken me there a couple of times."

"But I've never been there! How could I dream about a placeI've never been?" said Harry.

"Dunno. Magic?" said Ron with a shrug.

"Oh really! What does that mean in _this _school?" said Hermione.

They had just turned onto the grand staircase, heading down into the entrance hall. There was a great crowd of students at the foot, all talking at once. They were standing around a notice pinned to the wall beside the hourglasses that recorded the House points.

"Outta the way! Outta the way, I say!" boomed a voice. Harry saw Archchancellor Ridcully pushing his way through the crowd and towards the front doors. He was wearing an old-fashioned striped bathing costume and his pointed hat. His Bursar followed, staggering under a pile of rods, nets, bait cans and what looked very much like a harpoon.

"Come on, out of the way! I'll get him this time, the brute. I'll go into the lake meself if I have to. Hurry up there, Bursar!" Ridcully roared, wading doggedly through the mass of excited students.

"What's going on?" Harry asked a passing Hufflepuff as he, Ron and Hermione reached the bottom of the stairs.

"It's that… that vile woman!" the Hufflepuff snapped as she strode past.

Ron, who was the tallest of the three, stood on his tiptoes so that he could see over the heads of the crowd. The notice read:

_EDUCATIONAL DECREE No. Twenty Three_

_After due consideration, it has been decided that Dolores Umbridge be appointed as the first 'Hogwarts High Inquisitor', to monitor academic standards and ensure quality of education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.. _

_Signed,_

_Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic _

"To monitor academic standards and ensure quality of education?" Ron repeated, "What on earth does _that _mean?!"

"It means Fudge has given Umbridge power to interfere at Hogwarts," said Hermione darkly.

"What are you laughing about?" she asked Harry, who was chuckling.

"I was just imagining the look on Mistress Weatherwax's face when Umbridge tries to 'monitor' her!" he explained, grinning.

Smiles slowly blossomed on Ron and Hermione's faces as the image formed in their minds.

"Oh, I do hope we're there when it happens," said Hermione. Ron nodded.

"This is going to be fun!"


	13. Trial And a Little Bit of Error

**Chapter 13: Trial… And a little bit of Error**

True to expectation, Umbridge's first few weeks as High Inquisitor were dreadful. When she wasn't teaching herself, she was bustling round the other classes, making sure that each and every teacher performed to 'Ministry Standards'. She wielded her clipboard, with attached checklist, like it was a lethal weapon. Harry harboured a nasty suspicion that it may indeed spell the death of anything even approaching a decent education at Hogwarts. He had tried to imagine Snape teaching Potions in the same manner that Umbridge taught Defence; he had to give up, before his brain was irreparably warped.

That said, they had managed to get some entertainment out of it. Umbridge had shown up to examine their Thaumaturgical Studies lesson one afternoon. Watching her try to wake up the professor, sound asleep at his desk, had been hilarious. Starting out with a stern tap on the shoulder, she had graduated to jabbing him with her wand, and then to amplifying her voice, before finally resorting to casting Stinging Hexes at the man. All had been ignored, the old man too far gone for such puny alarms. Quite how they were supposed to wake him up, when he singularly failed to be disturbed by a rioting class of trainee wizards and witches every lesson, Umbridge didn't explain.

Her problem with the visiting staff members was two-fold. Firstly, she clearly felt that they were not up to the job of teaching – and however much Harry might enjoy the lessons he had with them, he would have to admit that they did not exactly adhere to recognised teaching qualities, such as usefulness, interest, or even coherence. Of course, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; if he had to vote for the worst class currently being taught at Hogwarts, he would have picked Defence, hands down, regardless of his personally feelings towards Umbridge. Her second problem was that, despite the numerous failings she identified, there wasn't a lot she could do. As visiting staff, they were in something of a loophole, legally speaking. She couldn't actually sack them. She _could_ do everything possible to make their lives hell, but she was finding that tactics that infuriated colleagues and students had absolutely no effect on the staff of Unseen University, or Mistress Weatherwax and her friends. Half the time, she was ignored, and the rest of the time, she was treated with at best befuddlement, at worst unbridled contempt (mainly from Mistress Weatherwax). Much hilarity had ensued when one of the visiting wizards had told her she had no business teaching in a magical establishment, as a woman. Harry and Ron were always very careful not to mention this when Hermione, Ginny or Luna were around.

Hearing about the admittedly old-fashioned views of the Unseen University staff, Hermione had gone on a library rampage. She had returned in a foul mood, finding Harry and Ron sitting outside with Luna and Ginny.

"This library is useless!"

Harry and Ron looked at each other, astonished.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?" Harry asked her.

She scowled at him. "I'm not in the mood Harry. Where are these people from?"

"Oh not again Hermione, we've all heard it before. We know they're… old fashioned, but so what? It's not a crime!" Ron sighed, rolling his eyes.

Harry edged away from his friend as Hermione turned a gaze on Ron that ought, by rights, to have killed him where he sat. Ron cowered. Her point made, Hermione resumed her rant. "I've spent the entire morning looking up Unseen University, and there isn't a single mention of it anywhere! For that matter, there's no mention of Lancre anywhere either. It's as if they don't really exist!"

"Oh, they exist, just not here." Luna's airy tones cut Hermione off mid-flow.

There was a moment of silence as the other four looked at each other. "What do you mean, 'not here'?" Harry asked, tentatively.

"They're from a parallel dimension, obviously. You can tell by the way they dress."

"Well, that would explain a lot, you have to admit. Why they've got such different ideas about magic, for a start."

Hermione stared at him incredulously. "Harry, you don't seriously believe that, do you?"

"Well, you said yourself that it didn't seem like either Lancre or this University exist – so this is as good an explanation as any, isn't it? I don't get why it's such an issue, anyway."

"It's impossible!"

"Hermione, my trunk walks around on hundreds of little legs, and one of my best friends is a skeletal rat with a steady job collecting departed souls. Impossible has no meaning for me."

* * *

"Now, are we sure about this Cohen? Looks like a prime place for an ambush, you ask me…"

Cohen turned to look at Caleb irritably. "Of course it is, it's a bloody Dark Lord's lair, isn't it? I'd be disappointed if there wasn't room for a decent ambush!"

"Yeah, but are we _sure_ that it's his lair? We were wrong last time."

"It's basic logic – Dark Lord's either live in the highest place, or the lowest. We tried the highest, and that was wrong. This is the lowest, so it must be the place. Look, it's got guards and everything."

The Horde peeked around their cover. There were indeed guards, although even Cohen would have had to admit they were hardly immense physical specimens. He couldn't think of a single Dark Lord who would have had their guards sitting behind a desk. Of course, you didn't really look for intelligence in a true Dark Lord, so perhaps their target was simply following the Code to the absolute letter.

"Any other problems?" Cohen enquired, icily.

The rest of the Horde looked at each other, considering. Caleb shook his head, wincing as the bones in his neck cracked with the movement. "No Cohen, no problem. Just wanted to be sure."

"Well, if it ain't here, then I've no idea where else it could be. Now, here's the plan: we must have come on too strong last time, right? Frightened 'im off or something. Today, we're just going to be a little more discreet, right? Come on, let's move…"

They manoeuvred themselves out from their hiding place, and sidled discreetly over to the guard's desk. Typically, they did not draw much attention, which was as much due to the outlandish clothes many of the people around them were wearing anyway as the Horde's natural skill. The guard looked up as they approached, mingling with the other people milling about. His eyebrow raised, and Cohen's hands twitched towards his concealed sword. But the guard did nothing, merely looking back to his paper. As they walked past, Cohen distinctly heard him mutter something about "Bloody roleplayers…"

The Horde made their way through the packed hall, but they were brought up short by some small, grey barriers. Cohen walked up to them curiously, and poked at them.

"What the hell are these? If you're going to make a gate, make it a decent height! It's basic logic!"

"Go on then, you climb over them." Truckle sniggered at him, and Cohen glowered. He had to admit though, his friend had a point. The barriers would be quite effective in stopping them, in their current condition.

"Excuse me sir, is there a problem?"

Another guard was approaching, a quizzical expression on his face. Cohen suppressed his initial instinct – to skewer him with his broadsword – with difficulty, and thought back to the old lessons from Teach, in the Agatean Empire. He decided to apply the civilized approach.

"Ah yes… Erm, hello there. Young man…" He growled out the last words, hating the implication that he was older. "Just erm… Just let us through these gates, eh? No problem really."

"Have you bought a ticket, sir?" The guard was speaking very slowly, and very carefully, as if he was a tourist. Cohen scowled.

"No I bloody well haven't! Buy a ticket?"

"Yes sir. You and your friends need to get tickets before you can travel." The guard's helpfulness was beginning to grate. Cohen had a nasty suspicion that this was all going to go wrong again.

"'Ere, Cohen, what's he sayin'?" Truckle whispered.

"He wants us to give him some money, Truckle." Cohen explained, his fingers twitching at the very idea.

"Whussat?"

"He said, the man wants us to give him some money, Hamish!" Truckle bellowed into Hamish's ear.

"Money? Bugger that!" Hamish whipped his sword out, and the guard let out a high-pitched scream, before fainting dead away. Cohen shook his head.

"Poor standard really, you'd expect better… Oh well, come on lads!"

The Horde brandished their swords, yelling out their own individual battle cries, before cutting their way through the flimsy barriers. The people milling about scattered, screaming, but Cohen, leading the charge, ignored them. He was focussed on the curious stairways in front of him. They would surely lead to this Dark Lord. He halted next to them, and the Horde gathered around him.

"Look at 'em – magic, must be!" Sure enough, the stairs were moving, sliding downwards, constantly forming new steps from the ground beneath them.

"Yep, definitely the way forward Cohen – we're on a winner here." Caleb's grin was savage, and he waved his sword again. "Come on!"

The moving stairs caused them some difficulty initially, as they stumbled and tripped their way down. However, they were accustomed to such tricky situations, and they had regained their balance by the time they reached the bottom. They were faced with a choice of passageways; their decision was made for them by a teeth-rattling roar coming from their left.

"That sound like a dragon to you Cohen?" Truckle enquired, a cheerful glint in his eye.

"It did indeed Truckle! Shall we go and say hello?" Cohen grinned widely, flashing his diamond smile at them. The Horde scurried down the passageway, and found themselves on a long ledge at the side of a gaping tunnel. The roar was coming from the darkness at the end of the platform, and they turned to face it.

What emerged was like no dragon they had ever fought before. No wings, no legs – no head, to speak of. It resembled a snake more than anything else, but even that was wrong. It was just a long tube, and appeared to be made out of metal. What was not in doubt was that it was dangerous – they could all see the hundreds of people it had eaten through its skin, which had little windows in, for some reason. The Horde looked at each other, shrugged collectively, and charged. Their swords cut through the metal plating like butter, and the creature shuddered to a halt, apparently shrieking in agony – although there didn't appear to be a mouth for it to shriek with. Sparks flew, and the people inside screamed, cowering away from the cutting blades.

As the creature stopped, gaping holes burst open, and the trapped victims of the creature spewed out. Cohen had learnt not to expect much in the way of gratitude from people he saved (except the occasional maiden of whom he had found memories), but seeing the victims run away screaming was, frankly, a tad dispiriting. He ceased his energetic attack on the creature, and stared at the departing masses.

"Oh, fine then! Go on, see if we care! Ye gods, they're ungrateful bastards!"

"What d'you expect? But I think it's safe to say we conquered it!" Truckle made a last few swipes at the beast, and part of the side fell away, clanging on the floor beneath them. A short distance away, Hamish was hacking away with unexpected vigour, a gleeful grin on his face. Cohen nodded his approval.

"Right, let's track down this Dark Lord, shall we?"

They scurried throughout the dungeon, searching for their quarry. He was elusive. All the guards had fled, so they had no-one to interrogate, and although there were signs pointing out the 'station manager's office', that didn't seem right somehow. Besides, it was empty. Additionally, the Dark Lord they had encountered in that graveyard had clearly been a wizard of some description, although perhaps warlock, or simply maniac might have been a better label to stick on him. None of the Horde had a drop of magical blood in them, but over the years they had learnt to pick up on the signs. There was nothing magical about the place. Even the bizarre monster they had just killed had not felt magical. Certainly, there was no sign of a tall, pale, scaly man with glowing red eyes. He would have been quite conspicuous, Cohen felt.

Eventually, they were forced to admit defeat. While they had their suspicions about the dungeon, their quarry was clearly not present. Grumbling to themselves, they retreated, resolving to keep an eye on the place and return at a later date.

They did not notice the men watching them from a vintage Rolls Royce, all clad in dark blue robes. One of the men muttered something as he raised his arm, poking his wand out of the window. There was a momentary flash of light, and the bustling crowd outside the station stilled for a moment as the magic washed over them. Instantly, all memories of the mysterious bunch of old men vanished. The men got out of the car, and walked grimly into the station. They had a train to patch up.


	14. A Giant Problem

Chapter 14: A Giant Problem

Greebo was not happy. Until now, he had been enjoying his holiday. Hogwarts offered many opportunities for him to indulge in his favourite pastimes: namely killing things, raping things and, on especially good days, combining the two. Mrs Norris still walked with a limp and refused to leave Filch's office.

The students had quickly learned that, while the old superstition about black cats crossing your path might be nonsense, when applied to Greebo it was less of a superstition and more of a health and safety warning. People would go right around the castle to avoid sharing a corridor with him. Even the castle ghosts had been known to sidle quietly through walls when he approached.

Greebo had found the forest in the grounds particularly interesting. The creatures of Lancre had long learned to fear him. The creatures in this forest had never met him. The memory of a ten-foot Acromantula trying to climb backwards up a tree still made him purr.

Purring was the last thing he wanted to do right now, however. The toad-like woman in a pink cardigan had managed to corner him in her office. Now she was talking to him in that sweetly condescending voice people reserve for small children, animals and foreigners.

"Aww, you poor puss. Look at your poor ickle face. What has that nasty old woman been doingto you?"

Greebo was confused. He was proud of his scars. It had taken him many years to reach the point where he had more scar tissue than fur on his head.

"Don't you worry," the horrid woman cooed, "I'll put some potion on it right away. You'll be as fluffy as the day you were born! But first…"

She reached into her desk and drew out a long, pink ribbon.

"Oh!" she squeaked, "This will may you look just _adorable!"_

Greebo hissed but his back was against the door. The hideous woman was bearing down on him and there was nowhere for him to run.

He felt a twinge. Oh no, he thought, not again. There was nothing he could do to stop it: the change was already underway. This was going to be embarrassing.

* * *

"It's ridiculous! How does the Ministry expect us to defend ourselves if all we're learning is this rubbish?" said Harry, shoving his copy of _Defensive Magical Theory _back into his bag. He was sitting with Ron and Hermione on a broad window seat overlooking the castle grounds. It was early December and the windowpanes were decorated with delicate patterns of frost.

"That's just it: they don't want us to defend ourselves," said Hermione, "Fudge knows that the students are more loyal to Dumbledore than they are to him. He's afraid that Dumbledore could use us to force Fudge out of office."

"What? He thinks Dumbledore's training us for some sort… some sort of coup_? _Come off it, Hermione! Even Fudge isn't that thick,_" _said Ron.

"I didn't say it was logical," said Hermione, "but Fudge is clearly paranoid. Just look at what he's been doing to the _Prophet_."

"I suppose," said Ron, although he still looked sceptical.

"That still doesn't help us," said Harry, "Vol – You-Know-Who is back. If this war does come, we're going to have to be able to look after ourselves. We need some proper teaching!"

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of screaming from down the corridor. The three friends craned forward and watched as Umbridge came racing past, her fat little legs pumping up and down like pistons. She was followed closely a naked man running on all fours. They passed the window seat in a blur, rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

There was a moment of silence in the corridor. Nobody seemed able to meet anybody else's gaze. Harry searched desperately for a new topic of conversation.

"Oh, look!" he cried.

"Wha – What?" stammered Hermione. She had gone very pink.

"It's Hagrid! Hagrid's back!" said Harry, pointing down to Hagrid's hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Ron and Hermione turned. The snow around the hut was criss-crossed with huge footprints. Smoke was curling from the chimney. Harry, Ron and Hermione leapt up and ran for the great staircase. They reached the hut just as Hagrid was climbing down from the front door. He was carrying a picnic hamper the size of a chest of drawers on his arm.

"Oh, hello you three," he said, smiling bashfully, as if they had caught him doing something that he was not proud of.

"Hagrid, what's going on? Where have you been?" Harry asked.

"Err… it's a bit complicated," said Hagrid awkwardly, "Listen, I've got somethin' that needs doin' in the Forest. If you pop back later I'll fix us up a nice spot o' supper an' we'll talk about it then, ok?"

"Oh… alright," said Harry.

"Sure," said Ron.

"Whatever you say, Hagrid," said Hermione.

Hagrid smiled and turned to go. He paused.

"Yer not goin' back up to the castle ter get that invisibility cloak of yer's so yer can follow me, are you?"

"No!"

"'Course not!"

"Wouldn't dream of it!"

Hagrid did not move.

"Well…"

"When you put it that way…"

"Yes, that's pretty much it."

Hagrid sighed.

"Well, I suppose I might as well keep yer where I can see yer. Come on!"

Harry, Ron and Hermione followed, grinning sheepishly.

They had never been into the Forbidden Forest in the winter. Most of the trees had dropped their leaves months ago, leaving them grey and skeletal. Fingers of golden light probed between the bare trunks and dappled on the path before them. The snow ahead was criss-crossed with many different sets of tracks: paws and hooves and other, stranger feet that Harry could not identify.

"So, where have you been Hagrid?" he asked, trying to ignore the feeling that he was being watched from somewhere among the trees.

"East Europe," said Hagrid, "Caucasus, that sort'a area."

"What were you doing there?"

"Work from Dumbledore," said Hagrid gruffly.

"I bet it was _really _important, if he sent you," said Hermione.

"Oh aye, o' course," said Hagrid, a proud smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. Hermione nodded earnestly and jabbed Ron with her elbow.

"He gives you all the important jobs, doesn't he?" he added quickly, "Like when he sent you to collect Harry?"

"Yeah, that's true enough," said Hagrid.

"So, what were you doing this time?" Harry asked.

"Well, me and Olympe were goin' to talk to the –" Hagrid froze, "I shouldn't be talkin' about it. Dumbledore said not ter talk about it."

"Olympe? You went with Madame Maxine?" said Hermione.

"Oh aye. Well, we were better suited to it than most, yer see, on account of –" Hagrid caught himself just in time.

"Why were you better suited to it?" said Harry.

"'Cause of… Well, see fer yerself," said Hagrid. They had reached the edge of a large clearing. Something had torn down many of the trees, leaving a ring of stumps littered with fallen trunks. Sitting in the centre of the clearing, surrounded by a mound of broken children's toys, was a strange brown lump about the size of a small cottage.

"Hagrid is that –" Hermione began but fell silent as the lump began to stir. Two long arms, thick as girders, seemed to sprout from the sides. A head, shaped like a lumpy grey boulder, rose up and turned towards them.

"'A-grid?" the giant rumbled. Two dark, twinkling eyes stared down at them.

"Hello Grawp!" Hagrid shouted, "Brought yer some dinner!"

He held up the picnic hamper.

"'Inner?" the giant said, its huge mouth curving into a smile.

"Here yer go," said Hagrid, putting the hamper on the ground in front of the giant and then quickly retreating. As the giant turned its body to reach for the hamper Harry saw that it had been tethered to some of the sturdier trees with ropes.

"Hagrid, did Dumbledore send you to find the giants?" Hermione asked softly, afraid that she might spook the giant.

"Aye," said Hagrid, "Wanted ter bring 'em in on our side 'fore they joined up with You-Who-Know again."

"You what?!" said Ron, incredulously, "Has Dumbledore gone off his rocker? You can't be _allies _with the giants. They're savage, they're –"

"Misun'erstood," said Hagrid firmly. Harry and his friends shared a sceptical look, remembering some of the other creatures that Hagrid felt were 'misunderstood'.

"Don't yer look like that!" said Hagrid, "They're a bit rough, true, but that's jus' their way. They just wanna be left alone, mainly. But wizards hav' bin driving 'em away for years; pushin' them out into the wild. It ain't right. A lot of 'em hate wizards somethin' terrible."

"Which is why they sided with You-Know-Who in the last war," Harry concluded.

"Aye," said Hagrid, "Which is what Dumbledore wanted ter stop this time."

Harry glanced up at the tethered giant, who was tipping what looked like a whole butcher's carcass into its mouth. He remembered fighting the mountain troll in his first year. This giant was much, much bigger. Harry could all too easily imagine the damage it could do if it went on the rampage.

"So, did you do it? Did you convince the giants to fight against You-Know-Who?" Ron asked. He was eyeing the giant's restraints nervously, as if afraid it could break loose at any moment.

"No," said Hagrid, shaking his head. He looked angry, "Dumbledore sent me an' Olyme, on account o' us bein' half-giant. 'e thought the Gurg, tha's their king, would be more likely ter listen to us more than a human. But the Death Eaters were there too."

"Did you see them?" asked Hermione.

"A couple o' times," said Hagrid, "Not close up. Reckon they was too scared ter risk a fight. But we spotted 'em comin' out o' the Gurg's cave a couple o' times."

"So the giants are going to fight for You-Know-Who?" said Ron.

"Looks that way," said Hagrid, "It's easier ter make someone angry than ter make 'em see sense. The Gurg don't trust the Ministry an' a lot o' his people are itchin' fer revenge on the wizards. Me an' Olympe were lucky ter make it out o' there with our skins."

"So, if the giants aren't on our side, what's _that _doing at Hogwarts?" Ron demanded. He pointed to the giant who, having finished all the food, was now chewing contentedly on the hamper itself.

"He's special," said Hagrid awkwardly, "He's… He's my brother."

"Your brother?!"

"Well, half-brother technically," said Hagrid, "Only he's a full giant, see. Me Mum had him after me dad died an' she moved back east ter be with her own kind. His name's Grawp. Say 'ello Grawp!"

Grawp looked up. One massive hand, as long as wardrobe, shot forward with surprising speed and grabbed Hagrid's arm.

"Grawp! Grawp, le' go! Le' go now!" Hagrid shouted as he was dragged across the clearing. Grawp gave what might have been a laugh but sounded more like a roar and swatted away Hagrid with the back of his hand, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"Hagrid, are you alright?" Harry asked as the three friends helped Hagrid to his feet.

"Oh aye, he's just not used ter dealin' wiv humans yet," said Hagrid genially. An ugly blue bruise was already blossoming around his right eye.

"Why on Earth did you bring him here?" asked Hermione.

"'Cause the other giants wouldn't accept 'im. He was livin' on 'is own. They'd probably have killed 'im if he'd stayed there much longer. 'Es only little, yer see."

Harry looked at Grawp again. Sitting crossed legged on the ground he was as tall as Hagrid. Standing up, he could easily have been twenty feet or more.

"Does Dumbledore know about this?" Ron asked.

"Oh aye," said Hagrid, nodding, "'e said it were fine, so long as he stays in the Forest. I thought 'e could help me with my job, soon I've got him used ter bein' aroun' humans, o' course."

Harry tried to imagine Grawp and Hagrid striding side by side through the grounds. It was too bizarre, even for Hogwarts.

* * *

Harry always looked forward to Christmas at Hogwarts. The trees were decorated with genuine fairy lights; miniature angel figures were enchanted to play carols on their miniature instruments; the tinsel changed colour as you watched; there was even magical, never-melting snow and frost in the corridors. That year, however, the castle seemed a little confused.

Harry could not quite put his finger on it. The banners kept changing their slogans when they thought no-one was watching. Sometimes they appeared to say 'Merry Christmas' but sometimes they said 'Merry Hogswatch'. The paper streamers looked suspiciously like sausages and there were generally rather more pig-themed decorations than usual. It was like the castle was trying to celebrate two different holidays at the same time and could not work out how to fit them both in.

Something funny seemed to be happening to Granny Weatherwax too. Every time somebody wished her a 'Merry Christmas' she would say something like:

"Christmas? Bah! Peppermint…?"

She would then stand still, looking very confused, before marching off muttering about 'morphic resonances'.

The real benefit of the Christmas period, however, was that High Inquisitor Umbridge had been forced to take a fortnight's holiday due to nervous exhaustion. Hermione had been worried about this, predicting even stronger action when Umbridge returned, but Harry and Ron were just happy not to have her in the castle.

Christmas Day was especially fun. Even the Death of Rats seemed to get into the mood, tying a string of fairy lights around his scythe. The Unseen University faculty kept the delighted House Elves working at top speed throughout the day, producing yet more turkeys, chestnuts and Christmas Pudding. Nanny Ogg got very merry on mulled wine and led the students in a hearty rendition of 'A Wizard's Staff Has A Knob On The End' until she was forcibly dragged from the Great Hall by an irate Granny Weatherwax. Harry climbed into bed that night with a full stomach and a smile on his face, looking forward to visiting Sirius at Grimmauld Place on Boxing Day.

His dream that night was not at all festive. He was in the dark corridor again, where the bricks glowed with a strange green light. This time however, he was not walking but gliding across the floor. No, not gliding: slithering. He was a snake or inside a snake's head; seeing through its eyes. There was the black door up ahead. There was someone standing beside it. Harry could not see him but he could definitely smell him: a mixture of engine grease and strong coffee.

Harry slithered towards him. The man had not seen him. Harry raised his head, his fangs bared, and struck. He could taste the blood, sharp on his tongue, and feel its warmth as it flowed across his face. The man screamed and fell to the floor. Harry struck again and again, biting up and down the man's leg. The man's cloak had fallen away. Harry's head reared up again and he saw the man's face just before he made a final lunge.

Harry woke very suddenly. His bed sheets were once again soaked in sweat. He leapt up and grabbed his glasses from his beside table.

"Ron, Ron!" he cried, tearing the hangings from around his friend's bed, "Ron, wake up! It's your dad! He's been attacked!"


	15. Defence, UUstyle

**Chapter 15: Defence, UU-style**

Harry and his friends arrived in Grimmauld Place in a cloud of soot. Typically, Harry ended up flat on his back, and he cursed quietly. He hated Floo travel. He was hauled to his feet, and he looked up to find Sirius standing over him, concern radiating from him. Harry grinned at him, but before he could even say hello, he was shoved out of the way by the Weasley twins.

"Is dad alright? What happened to him?"

"Calm down, alright? He's ok, they found him and took him to St Mungo's. They're patching him up now. He's going to be fine. And we don't really know what happened to him, not yet. Just that he was attacked – it looked like he'd been bitten by something, although Merlin only knows what." Sirius made a calming gesture with his hands, talking soothingly to them.

The twins did not look entirely happy to hear this, but they stepped away at least, moving to the fireplace and sitting down. Sirius placed his arm round Harry's shoulders, and pulled him aside.

"Harry, what happened? Dumbledore only gave me the basics, he didn't have time to go into detail."

Harry hesitated, not wanting to go over it all again, but this was Sirius he was talking to: he could trust him. He went back over the evening, explaining his vision, and what he had seen. Sirius listened carefully, his expression carefully blank. When he had finished, Harry looked at Sirius nervously. His godfather nodded, slowly.

"And you think that you were actually there? That you were really the snake?" He spoke quietly, trying not to let the Weasleys hear.

"Well, yeah, I think so. I know it sounds crazy, but it felt so real!"

"Harry, listen to me. There is no magic in the world that could have taken you to the Ministry, turned you into a snake, made you attack Arthur – while aware of what you were doing – and then transported you back to Hogwarts instantly. Especially without alerting Dumbledore. It's impossible, I assure you. Besides, if Voldemort could get you out of your bed like that, he wouldn't mess around turning you into a snake, he'd just put the Killing Curse between your eyes."

"Well, that's certainly a comfort," Harry commented sarcastically. Sirius grinned at him playfully.

"Harry, I don't know why you saw it, but it wasn't you – you were just watching, ok? It wasn't you."

Harry sighed. "Ok Padfoot, if you say so. Can't you at least tell me what Mr Weasley was doing there? Wherever there was, of course…"

Sirius looked round, checking that they were alone. When he turned back, he had a mischievous grin on his face. "Well, I really shouldn't… But it was the Department of Mysteries, at the Ministry for Magic. I don't know what he was guarding though, Dumbledore won't tell us. Just that it's important Voldemort doesn't get his dirty paws on it"

"Nice of him. 'Risk your life for unknown reasons! It'll be fine, trust me!' Does he get a kick out of being cryptic or something?"

Sirius sniggered. "He's old, cut him a little slack. Anyway, it's good to see you pup." Sirius wrapped him in a hug, and ruffled his hair. "Just concentrate on having a good Christmas, ok?"

Easier said than done, Harry thought to himself as Sirius walked away to fetch drinks. He saw something move from the corner of his eye, and he turned to see the Death of Rats perched on the shelves across the room. He hurried across, and bent until his eyes were level with his friend.

"Did you see anything Ratty?"

SQUEAK. SQUEAK SQUEAK _SQUEAK_.

Harry sighed, and held his hand out. The Death of Rats leapt into his palm, and scurried up his arm to sit at his shoulder, his tiny scythe slung over his shoulder. He apparently had been asleep the whole time, but had been tossing and turning, muttering to himself. It was a comfort, but only a small one. As he mused over the evening's events, Harry paused. Dumbledore had said that all their things would be sent on to them from Hogwarts. That presumably meant that someone was going to be trying to pack the Luggage… He ran to get some paper from Sirius, before too many house-elves were eaten.

* * *

Thankfully, Christmas had perked up after that. The Luggage had arrived at Grimmauld Place without having eaten any house-elves, for which Harry was immensely grateful. He wasn't certain precisely how that would fit in with the SPEW manifesto, but he was sure that Hermione would have given him a tremendous amount of earache over it, and he frankly had better things to worry about than his trunks dietary habits. They had gone to visit Mr Weasley in St Mungo's, which had been fun, until they bumped into Gilderoy Lockhart, who had wandered away from the Closed Ward. Despite the fact that he had been a useless fraud, and had tried to obliviate Harry and Luna, Harry couldn't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for the man. He was clearly not well.

They had returned to Hogwarts to find that Umbridge was back, and she was not happy. Her two week sick leave for nervous exhaustion might have restored her health, but her sanity – arguably not entirely present to begin with – was now at dangerously low levels. For some reason, she had removed all the cat paintings from her office, and although she declined to explain this, it quickly became a favourite question amongst the Hogwarts students. Whenever anyone mentioned cats to her, her left eye started to twitch alarmingly, and Fred and George were running a book on who would cause her next breakdown first. Sadly, this decrease in sanity meant an increase in nastiness. For the most part, Harry and his friends were able to ignore her – they had survived nearly five years of Snape, who made her look like an amateur, after all – but sometimes, she showed herself to be truly evil.

It was when Harry found himself carving open his own hand that he snapped. Her Blood-Quill was simply barbaric. After Hermione had dissuaded him from the idea of simply walking to her office and casting every inventive little hex and jinx that he could think of, she made a rather more daring suggestion.

Teaching people to defend themselves. It was perfect. People could learn to fight in the war, and it was a lot better than ignoring Umbridge in lessons (although obviously, they did that as well. They learnt more that way). And so the DA came into existence, alongside a new Ministry decree, stating that all clubs needed signed approval from Umbridge. Harry read the notice, and then proceeded to ignore it. Dobby was glad to help him find a suitable location, and the Room of Requirement suited their needs perfectly.

By the third meeting of the DA, they had all settled into a comfortable routine, but Harry had to admit, there were things they could be learning that he simply didn't know about. It was hardly something he could ask the staff about though – even if they approved, they would be compelled to call a halt to the club. Things took an unexpected turn a few weeks later though.

"_Expelliarmus!_" Ron's disarming jinx shot across the room, and blasted Dean's wand from his hand. The redhead grinned triumphantly, and took a bow as the spectators applauded politely. Harry stepped into the middle of the room, beaming at his friend.

"Well done Ron, that was very good. Ok, Hermione, Luna, you're up."

Harry suspected this would be an unusual duel, and it was. He couldn't work out whether Luna was simply a bad duellist, or whether she just wasn't paying attention. Certainly, there were a few singed eyebrows from one of her spells that she somehow cast at the people standing behind her, and shooting a fountain of wine at Hermione was impressive, but hardly useful. Hermione beat her with two spells, but Luna didn't seem concerned. Privately, Harry vowed to make sure his younger friend never got into a duel – something he hoped to achieve with all of his friends, since he didn't want any of them to get hurt, but at least the others would actually pay attention.

"Ok, Ginny, Parvati – "

He was cut off by the door bursting open.

"Now then, sounded like something active was happening in here! Whatcha doing lad? Hmm?" The booming voice identified the intruder as Archchancellor Ridcully immediately; plaster fell from the ceiling, and Harry brushed it from his shoulder before replying.

"Erm, well, this is…" He thought fast. He knew that Ridcully approved of healthy sporting pursuits. "Well, just a little sporting club sir. Not everyone can play Quidditch, and we need to be in top shape!"

"Absolutely! Absolutely m'boy! Wish my staff would listen, but no, they think it's not natural! Just sit around drinkin' and eatin' all the time."

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron pondering this notion with interest. Ron would probably be quite happy working with the staff of Unseen University, assuming they played Quidditch and chess there. "Well sir, everyone needs a hobby, don't they? Wait a minute…" he tailed off as a thought struck him. "Sir, you look like you've seen a bit of action in your time. Perhaps you could teach us a few things?"

"Bit of action? Hah! Never stops at Unseen U, believe me – creatures popping out of the Dungeon Dimensions over breakfast, someone mucking around with 'clicks', lost countries in Professor's back rooms, zombie staff… And there's always someone who manages to call the Librarian a monkey! You'd think they'd have learnt by now, but no, can't follow perfectly simple instructions. Bloody students. Still, got to have them, haven't you? Right, let's get this going. Show me what you can do eh?"

Harry blinked, and drew his wand, already beginning to think this was a bad idea. Still, at least he didn't seem to want to cause trouble for them. He moved into the classic duelling pose, waiting for Ridcully to make the first move. The Archchancellor raised an eyebrow quizzically, before clicking his fingers. A weirdly coloured fireball flew from his fingertips, and nearly burnt a path through Harry's hair as he ducked sharply. There were screams from behind him as the spectators threw themselves out of the way.

"Hah! Catch that! Come on lad, can't hang around in this business!"

"Hem hem…"

Harry froze, and swivelled on the spot. Dolores Umbridge was standing there, her hands on her hips and a crazed expression on her face. Behind him, Harry head Ron groan despairingly.

"Well, I see my information was accurate! Treachery, and right under my nose!"

Despite the seriousness of the situation they were in, Harry had to bite back a giggle as Umbridge began to twitch hysterically. Ridcully stepped forward, a bemused expression on his face.

"Treachery? No no, just a bit of healthy sport, what? Can't have them all just cooped up in that dratted library, not good for the health! They need to be active!"

"You!" Umbridge flailed her arm out at the Archchancellor, and he took a step back. "You are working with them to bring down this Ministry! Well, let me tell you _Archchancellor_ – you will not succeed! You will spend the rest of your life in Azkaban as a disgrace to wizardry!"

"Disgrace to wizardry!" Ridcully thundered, his temper flaring up. "What d'ye mean woman? And what would you know about wizardry anyway, you're a witch! Totally different discipline, totally different. You should leave the serious magic to us."

"You will be silent!" Umbridge shrieked, and her wand sparked. "Potter, Archchancellor – come with me…"

* * *

Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, smiling serenely. Standing next to the desk, clearly irritated that Dumbledore had not been reduced to a jelly by his very presence, was Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic. He was flanked by two men, one of whom Harry recognised from Grimmauld Place, the auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. He assumed that the other man was therefore an auror as well. Sitting by the fire, her head bowed, was Marietta Edgecombe, and Harry glowered at her. He immediately felt a little ridiculous for doing so, since she couldn't see him, but he carried on. It was the principle of the matter.

"Ah, Harry. Do come in, dear boy, make yourself at home."

Harry bit back a grin as Dumbledore welcomed him, well aware that the headmaster's unflustered appearance would infuriate the Minister even further. Which was precisely what it was supposed to do, of course. Sure enough, the Minister turned to face Dumbledore with an expression like thunder.

"See here Dumbledore, this is no laughing matter! Potter stands accused of high treason man! You'll be offering him a cup of tea and a biscuit next, for Merlin's sake!"

"Oh dear no, Minister, I don't have biscuits in my office. Fawkes eats them you see, and he puts on weight shockingly quickly. But yes, lemon drop Harry?"

"Thank you sir." Harry plucked one from the proffered bowl, and popped it into his mouth. They were a touch sour for his tastes, but the expression on Fudge's face was worth it. Behind the Minister, Shacklebolt grinned, widely.

"Hem hem… Perhaps we could get down to business?" Umbridge strode forward, brandishing a familiar piece of parchment gleefully. Harry's heart sank. He thought he knew what that was…

"As you know Minister, I was approached earlier today by Miss Edgecombe, who informed me that Potter was running a secret organisation within this very castle. Unfortunately, when I pressed her for further information, some kind of counter-charm kicked in and, well…" Umbridge reached out, tilting Marietta's head up, and Harry stared at her, goggle-eyed at the acne all over her face. It spelled out SNEAK.

"Ye Gods, that's hideous!" Ridcully exclaimed loudly. Marietta burst into tears, and turned her head away, howling. "Oh, erm, I mean… Tragic, very tragic…"

"Anyway…" Umbridge continued, glaring at Ridcully, "I went to the Room of Requirement, and sure enough, I found Potter teaching magic to several other students. They are founding an army Minister!"

"Delores, let's not get carried away. A study group yes, which may bend the rules, but an army? I think that's something of an exaggeration, don't you Minister?" Dumbledore no longer looked amused, and was fixing the Minister with a stern gaze. For a moment, Harry thought it would work; Fudge was looking conflicted, and probably didn't want to actually have to arrest Dumbledore, but then Umbridge brandished the parchment again.

"Oh, it is no exaggeration Minister! Look at this…" She handed Fudge the parchment, and as he read it, his eyes widened.

"Dumbledore's Army… Merlin's beard!"

Dumbledore blinked quickly, and looked over at Harry. Harry shrugged apologetically. Dumbledore smiled slightly, and turned back to the Minister. "As I said Cornelius, an exaggeration. Harry thought that he was simply giving extra lessons to his friends. The army was my idea, obviously."

"Your idea!"

"Well yes, of course. Dumbledore's Army, Cornelius, it says quite clearly, does it not? Dumbledore, not Harry."

Everyone stared at Dumbledore, who simply seemed amused by the whole thing. Harry leapt to his feet to protest, his mouth open before Dumbledore turned to him, glowering.

"Sit down Harry. Remember your manners…"

There was no refusing the Headmaster, not when his eyes burned like that, not when you could almost feel his words crashing into you. Harry sat down, his fists clenched. Umbridge smirked, smugly, her arms folded in satisfaction, and Fudge turned to Kingsley and the other Auror, still looking a little dazed. "Well, that's it now Dumbledore. Shacklebolt, Dawlish: arrest him."

"Arrest me? Cornelius, do you really think that will happen?" Dumbledore sounded amused once more, and his eyes were twinkling brightly again. "Quite apart from the issue of whether your two assistants are capable of subduing me, I really cannot muster the enthusiasm for an escape from Azkaban – I could do it, obviously, but such a waste of my time, don't you agree?"

Fudge stared at Dumbledore in silence for a moment, his mouth hanging slightly open. "You… But… What… Get him!"

The next few seconds were full of interest. When the smoke cleared, Marietta, Dawlish, Kingsley, Fudge and Umbridge were sprawled on the floor, their eyes closed and breathing peacefully. Dumbledore replaced his wand within his robes, and brushed some dust from his sleeves.

"Most regrettable indeed. There is an important lesson in this for you Harry – preparation is everything. I suggest you remember it."

"Sir, I'm really sorry, we never meant for this to happen!"

Dumbledore waved his hands dismissively. "Do not trouble yourself Harry. This may well be a rather fortuitous occurrence, as it happens… Be careful though; Umbridge will undoubtedly take control of the school after this, and she will have her eye on you. However, they will not realise that any time has passed between my spell and waking up. Do apologise to Kingsley for me, if you get the chance. Mustrum, it's been a pleasure working with you. I look forward to meeting you again."

"Pleasure to meet yer sir! Damned shame about the idiots you have to answer to though, wouldn't stand for it in Ankh-Morpork!"

"Alas, our Minister is not as… inspired, as your own Patrician." For a moment, Dumbledore looked as if he didn't really believe what he was saying, but Harry found that hard to believe. What kind of leader could possibly be worse than Fudge? Dumbledore turned to him, clasping his shoulder. "Be careful Harry. And remember: seeing is not always believing…"

Before Harry could interpret those cryptic words, Dumbledore had clasped Fawkes by his legs, and headmaster and phoenix vanished in a ball of fire. Harry caught Ridcully whistling in admiration.

"Better than a bloody broomstick…"

There was a sudden commotion as the stunned figures regained consciousness, leaping to their feet as if they had merely been knocked down. Sure enough, they did not realise they had been unconscious. Fudge bellowed at Dawlish and Kingsley to get after Dumbledore, and the two Aurors ran out of the office. As they left, Fudge glared at Harry and Ridcully.

"You two can get out. We have business to attend to… Delores, we need to gather the staff. Come on."

As they all trooped out of the office, two shapes slowly materialised into existence by the window. They were totally nondescript – essentially just two grey cloaks floating in mid-air. They did not have faces.

"Hmm. This 'Umbridge' could be useful to us. Her mental state is almost suitable for our needs."

"We agree. We shall watch her carefully…"

With that, the Auditors faded away again.


	16. Advisor on Occult Matters

Chapter 16 – Advisor on Occult Matters 

_EDUCATIONAL DECREE Number No. Thirty _

_The Ministry of Magic is delighted to announce that Dolores Umbridge has accepted the post of Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Umbridge, who has already done invaluable work upholding government standards at Hogwarts as High Inquisitor, will take up the post immediately._

_Signed,_

_Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic _

The decree, posted two days after Dumbledore's flight, was seen by the students at Hogwarts as tantamount to a declaration of war.

"As long as we're here, we're going to make sure that Umbridge doesn't get a single moment's peace," Fred told Harry. He and George were busy selling cut-price joke items in the Gryffindor common room. The Gryffindor prefects were supposed to close down this (illegal) trade but Hermione appeared to be deeply engrossed in her book and Ron was actively filling his pockets with Fanged Frisbees, Instant Darkness Powder and Wildfire Whizzbangs.

The first round unquestionably went to the students. Someone managed to sneak a Canary Cream into Umbridge's evening meal, temporarily transforming her into a giant yellow canary in front of the entire school. Unable to determine the guilty party, Umbridge decided to punish everybody by cancelling the Quidditch season. After that she took her meals alone in her study.

The conflict now shifted out into the school's corridors and courtyards. Umbridge was unable to turn a corner or pass through a door without risking being savaged by swarms of pixies or finding her feet stuck to the ceiling. As Easter term wore on her nervous twitch became more and more pronounced, until her whole body seemed to lurch with each spasm. She stalked the corridors with her wand drawn, enveloped in more counter-curses and magical shields than a team of Aurors. Her lessons were conducted in total silence. Any student mentioning Dumbledore, Voldemort or cats in her hearing was punished with a week's worth of detentions.

Ordinarily the staff would have stood by their headmistress and attempted to restore discipline but they seemed strangely reticent to help. Moreover, Umbridge's Inquisitorial Decrees, which had quickly become official rules after she became headmistress, prevented the teachers from discussing anything with their students that was not strictly relevant to their subject. A casual observer would have assumed that the teachers at Hogwarts had been struck both blind and deaf. They went about their business with an air of serenity, apparently oblivious to the cries of their headmistress as she fought against flocks of Flying Mousetraps.

Not all the staff members were so passive, however. Harry had first hand experience of this. He had been walking up from the Great Hall after lunch when he had spied Umbridge rounding the corner ahead. Anxious not to be landed with a detention, he had slipped behind a suit of armour and waited for her to leave. Umbridge was just about to pass a picture of two elderly wizards playing chess when a crossbow bolt came whistling through the air, past her nose and buried itself in the picture frame with a _thunk. _Umbridge gave a cry and twitched so violently that she nearly toppled over backwards. A second crossbow bolt followed, clattering off the stone behind her head. Umbridge raised her wand to cast some defensive spell, only to be driven back with a yelp as another bolt struck the floor by her foot. Casting a protective shield around herself, she had rounded the corner in a fury, heading in the direction the bolts had come from. Harry had followed. Peering round the corner he had seen Ridcully leaning casually against a pillar, smoking his pipe. Umbridge was standing before him, white-faced and trembling with indignation. There was no sign of a crossbow.

"Everything alright, headmistress?" asked Ridcully politely.

"Y-y-y-y…" was all Umbridge could muster by way of reply. The twitch interrupted her every attempt to speak.

Sadly, no matter how inventive the students were in resisting Umbridge's attempts to dominate Hogwarts, one constant remained: they had lots of work to do. Christmas term had been a holiday when compared to the workload that the teachers were now laying on the fifth years. Packets of 'Resurrection Blend Coffee' ('Powerful Enough to Raise the Dead'; it was endorsed by a vampire) were appearing all over the common rooms, as students were forced to go several nights at a time without sleep to finish all their essays.

Tonight it was Harry's turn. It was a bitingly cold February night and all the other Gryffindors were snuggled up in their beds, with hot water bottles and extra blankets. Harry, left alone in the common room, had piled the fire high and pulled his armchair as close to it as he could stand. The Death of Rats perched on one arm, toasting marshmallows on the end of its scythe, while Harry struggled to find an extra few inches to write on the ethics of love charms.

"_Psst! _Harry!"

Harry looked up and, mind still focused on his essay, turned to the Death of Rats.

"What?"

SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats. It gestured to the fire. Harry turned and gave a start:

"Sirius!"

"Hello, pup," said Sirius's head, grinning up at him from the grate, "Are you alone?"

"Yes," said Harry, glancing around the common room.

"Can your friend keep watch; make sure that we're not disturbed?" said Sirius.

SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats, hopping down and skittering over to the dormitory stairs.

"I have to be quick," said Sirius, "We think the Ministry may be watching the fireplaces at Hogwarts, in case Dumbledore tries to contact the staff."

"What's happened to him? Have you seen him?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Yes, I have seen him. Don't worry: he's perfectly safe. He wanted to come back to Hogwarts to talk you to himself but we persuaded him not to: the Ministry will be waiting for him."

"Dumbledore wants to speak to me?"

"Yes. It's about your dreams. Harry, Dumbledore thinks that you might be in danger. You need to learn how to protect yourself."

"Protect myself? From what? I don't even know what…"

"Harry, please just listen. We don't have much time. You are to go to Snape's office tomorrow, at midnight, alone. Take your wand. He'll explain."

"Snape?" said Harry, disdainfully, "Why would I want to spend time with him?"

Sirius smiled.

"I know how you feel, but he's the best teacher for this sort of thing. I've got to go: I've been too long as it is. Don't forget: Snape's office, midnight. Good luck!"

Sirius's head vanished from the grate and Harry was once again alone with the Death of Rats.

* * *

Lord Vetinari turned over another sheet of paper. He considered it carefully.

"This is most worrying, Commander," he said.

"Sir," said Sam Vimes, eyes fixed at a point two feet above Vetinari's shoulder.

"Most worrying indeed," said Vetinari, turning over another piece of paper.

"Seventy four disappearances in the last seven months," he continued, "And all still unaccounted for."

"Our investigations are proceeding, sir," said Vimes. Vetinari ignored him.

"It is most curious. There is no discernible pattern in age, sex or occupation. No evidence that they were abducted or manhandled in any way. Most were without links to the criminal world, organised or otherwise. I understand that the Assassins had contracts out on a few but, as they remain as yet unclaimed, we may rule them out. And I may assure you, commander, that I have nothing to do with it."

"No, sir," said Vimes. He meant it. The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork could make a quiet disappearance more public than a mass-hanging.

"The list of names is most curious," Vetinari continued, "For instance… a Mr. C.M.O.T. Dibbler?"

"We have reports that rates of botulism are undergoing a sharp decline, sir," said Vimes.

"I have had complaints, Commander."

"Sir?!"

"People don't like it, Commander. Our tourists _expect _to be offered Mr. Dibbler's, ahem, food. People like what is familiar. They like routine. They like the same-old same-old. It makes them feel safe. Mr. Dibbler's disappearance makes them uneasy."

Vimes had to admit that Vetinari had a point. He had actually caught himself missing the smell of fried pig-products under his window of a morning. He had tried to recreate the effect by ordering sausages from the canteen but it appeared that Dibbler had a magic (albeit a black magic) all of his own.

Vetinari leant back in his chair and considered Vimes over steepled fingers.

"I have some information that you are perhaps unaware of, Commander," he said, "About six months ago, the entire faculty of the Unseen University vanished without trace. They appear to have been among the first to disappear."

"Magical affair, sir," said Vimes quickly, "Not my department."

"I am afraid, Commander, that in the circumstances it _is_ your department." Vetinari reached into a drawer and produced a pile of letters. "Perhaps you are unaware of the extent of this problem? I have here correspondence from the rulers of Klatch, Lancre, Tsort, Ephebe, Pseudopolis, the Agatean Empire, all reporting similar, inexplicable, disappearances from among their own people. They look to Ankh-Morpork, the seat of the Disc's greatest centre of magical learning, for a solution."

Ye gods, Vimes groaned inwardly. First magic, now diplomacy: whatever happened to old fashioned, honest crimes?

"Of course, I do not expect you to rely entirely on your own resources," said Vetinari, "I was exaggerating when I said that the entire University faculty had disappeared." He picked up the speaking tube on his desk. "Send him in, Drumknott."

The door opened and two palace guards entered, supporting a skinny young man in wizard's robes between them. He was very pale and looked near to fainting. They lowered him into a chair and departed.

"I believe you have already met Rincewind, Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography? He was one of your Captain Carrot's companions on his mission to Cori Celesti two years ago."

"Yes, sir," said Vimes. Rincewind looked up at him and mumbled what might have been a greeting.

"Torture is truly the most fascinating of activities," said Vetinari mildly, "Some unwise individuals absolutely refuse to break, and so die in the process. Some will break after a few sessions. Others, you need only show them the instruments and their imagination will do the rest: they break themselves for you. But for your true coward, like the Professor here, all that was needful was to place him in an armchair, in a comfortably furnished room with a tray of biscuits. The merest possibility of the suggestion that he might be tortured was enough."

"Biscuits!" squeaked Rincewind, trembling.

"He should be coherent in a few hours," said Vetinari mildly, "He has agreed to tell you everything that he knows about the faculty's disappearance. I am appointing him as your official Advisor on Occult Matters."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"I think I may have misunderstood you, sir. You want this… this gentleman to assist the Watch in its investigations?"

"That is what I just said."

"But… sir… Look at his hat! He can't even _spell _'wizard'!"

"He is the most highly qualified wizard in the city."

"He's the _only _bloody wizard in the city!"

"Precisely. Good day, Commander."

* * *

"Come in, Potter," said Snape, curtly. Harry stepped in. It was dark in Snape's office. The light from the single lamp twisted strangely on the surfaces of the specimen jars that lined the walls. An empty Pensieve stood beside the lamp.

"How much did Black tell you?" Snape asked, moving to stand beside his desk.

"Not much," said Harry, "Just that Professor Dumbledore thought that I was in danger. Something to do with my dreams."

Snape snorted, as if this was the best he could have hoped from Sirius.

"I trust that you have worked out by now that these are no mere dreams. That at least should be clear, even to someone with such limited faculties."

Harry flushed but kept his anger in check.

"Yes, Professor."

"For some reason, which as yet eludes us, you and the Dark Lord share a connection," said Snape, "Perhaps it lies in the incident that led to the Dark Lord's first downfall. Perhaps it is something more. Whatever it may be, it would appear that you have been able to perceive the Dark Lord's thoughts and actions."

"You mean I've been reading his mind?"

"Muggles talk of 'reading minds', Potter," said Snape scornfully, "Wizards know better. The mind is not like a book, to be opened or closed at will. It is a much subtler and more complex entity than that. But, as you are highly ignorant of the proper terms, yes: you have been reading the Dark Lord's mind, as far as such a bald and inadequate description goes."

"And… has he been… reading mine?" said Harry. He could feel his stomach tightening inside him.

"The Dark Lord does not appear to be aware of the connection, yet, although doubtless this will change. He is a most powerful Legilimens…"

"A what?"

"One who practices Legilimency: the art of perceiving thoughts from afar," said Snape slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid child, "Do not interrupt. As I was saying, you have been fortunate. Your intrusions into the Dark Lord's mind have gone unnoticed; they occur when he is experiencing particularly strong emotions and so is otherwise occupied. This will not last. As soon as he discovers the connection he will attempt to use it, perhaps to lure you into danger, perhaps to gain access to this castle. Professor Dumbledore has given me the task of attempting to ingrain some basic principles of Occlumency, the art of defending one's mind against Legilimency, into your otherwise dull brain."

Harry considered this in silence. It certainly accounted for the dreams, not only this year but the year before that, when he had seen Voldemort murder the caretaker at his father's old house.

"We do not teach Occlumency at Hogwarts below N.E.W.T. level," Snape continued, "I will not be at all surprised if you fail to grasp the technique. But, what Dumbledore wants… Wand out, Potter."

Harry drew his wand. Snape placed his own wand to his temple and drew out several long, silvery threads of memory, which he placed in the Pensieve on his desk.

"I am going to attempt to penetrate your mind. Your task is to resist me," said Snape, taking up a duelling stance, "Very well. _Legilimens!"_

Harry was hit by a blast of cold air. The room suddenly went dark. His mind was filled with a succession of images, like a film being played very rapidly. There was Sirius's head in the fireplace; Ridcully smoking his pipe; Umbridge being chased by the Librarian; Ron and Hermione at Grimmauld Place; Cedric Diggory's body in the graveyard. Harry screamed.

He woke to find himself on the floor with no memory of having fallen. Snape was standing over him.

"Disappointing," said Snape, "Were you even trying to resist me, Potter? The Dark Lord will not be so gentle."

"I was trying," Harry snarled, climbing to his feet.

"I saw no evidence," said Snape, "Dumbledore tells me that you are very skilled at resisting the Imperius Curse. The principle here is much the same. So, again. _Legilimens!"_

Again, the blast of cold air and the sudden darkness. More images: Umbridge hopping along the staff table, scattering yellow feathers everywhere; writing with the Blood Quill; digging for potatoes in the kitchen garden; talking with Ron and Hermione late into the night.

"No," Harry muttered, "No… You can't. That's… private.

The images began to blur. They no longer moved in such rapid sequence. Harry was holding them back but it was a struggle, as if he were carrying a heavy weight. The images began to move again. He was reading Sirius's letter at Privet Drive. He was running through the graveyard, Death Eaters close behind. The strange, half-naked men leapt from nowhere, swinging long swords.

"_Expelliarmus!" _

As Harry's vision faded back to normal he saw Snape was reaching under his desk, trying to retrieve his wand.

"_Mental_ resistance, Potter," he growled, straightening up, "The Dark Lord will attack you from afar. You will not be able to curse _him. _

"That said, there was some slight improvement," he added, grudgingly, "We shall try again."

"Alright," said Harry, grimly.


	17. Chaos, of one sort or another

**Chapter 17: Chaos, of one sort or another**

It did not take long for Harry to decide that he hated Occlumency. A large part of that, of course, was that it meant extra tuition with Snape. He had claimed to his friends that this left him physically ill and morally wounded, but he stopped after Luna had offered to brew up a home-made potion from one of her father's own recipes. He had tried some cakes she had baked once, and it had taken months for his mouth to feel fully clean, no matter how hard he brushed his teeth. However, a significant part of his disdain for his lessons was the subject itself.

Far from stopping his dreams, they seemed to have increased. He now dreamed about the doorway every night, although he still didn't dare ask Snape what was behind it. He was slowly learning that Snape was very different away from the potions classroom. He was worse. Harry wasn't entirely sure how endless nights of mental torture were helping him, and even Hermione couldn't come up with a convincing excuse for Snape's behaviour.

Nevertheless, he persisted, partly out of a stubborn refusal to give in, and partly because he did trust Dumbledore. If the Headmaster wanted this to happen, and with Snape, then he was going to assume that it was necessary, and would be helpful… Whatever his personal views of Snape were. And of course, following Dumbledore's orders under Umbridge's nose gave him a warm thrill of vindictive satisfaction.

The Easter holidays were a welcome break from the madness; he still had Occlumency lessons, as he didn't leave the castle, but with no normal lessons, at least he was able to sleep at night. And no lessons meant he could avoid Umbridge easily. Her reign of madness had increased – rumour had it she was trying to pass an Educational Decree against students now, although Harry took that one with a pinch of salt.

After all, even Umbridge wasn't that crazy…

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Umbridge's dance with insanity reached its apex in the first week of the summer term. It all happened in Practical Witchcraft, with Mistress Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg. Umbridge had shown up, clipboard in hand, and a rictus grin on her face. She rarely stopped twitching these days. Weeks upon weeks of Fred and George's campaign, mixed with creative apathy from the Hogwarts staff, and the odd murder attempt from the guest teachers, had taken their toll. She was nearly broken, even the first years could tell. She stood at the back of the garden, as Mistress Weatherwax took the class through the finer points of bee keeping, which followed on from nearly a term on goat keeping. Both Mistress Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg ignored the witch watching them.

Harry worked diligently, handling the honeycombs with care, and watching Umbridge from the corner of his eye. He just knew that she was going to try something; she was too unbalanced not to, at this point. Sure enough, about halfway through the lesson, Umbridge placed her quill down, and cleared her throat, in the distinctively irritating fashion that she had.

"Hem hem… Could I perhaps interject at this point, Professor Weatherwax?"

Mistress Weatherwax looked up, her back ramrod straight, from where she had been correcting Malfoy, who seemed to have no idea what to do with his hands. She turned, slowly, to face Umbridge, her expression glacial.

"Well?"

"Yes, I have to ask Mistress Weatherwax, as Headmistress and High Inquisitor – what precisely are you actually teaching these children?" She followed the question with a sweetly sickening smile, which was in no way shape or form genuine.

"How to keep bees, obviously. Very important part of a witches training, that. If you can understand a hive, you can understand the world."

Umbridge stared at Mistress Weatherwax, unblinking. "You seriously think that they need to learn how to keep bees. Bees? You are mad! You have taught these children nothing! You fill their heads with gibberish, these lessons are pointless! You are a shameful excuse for a witch – you don't even seem to have a wand! Are you, in fact, capable of magic at all? I have seen no evidence to suggest you are anything other than an old crone!"

There was deathly silence, broken after a moment by Nanny Ogg: "Oh bugger…"

"Crone, is it? Right…" Mistress Weatherwax fixed her pointy hat in place, and folded her arms tight across her body. She fixed Umbridge with a gimlet stare, and the assembled students held their breath in anticipation…

Nothing happened.

The bees buzzed in the summer afternoon, the wind rustled Harry's hair. Still, nothing seemed to be happening. Could Umbridge have been right? No, that couldn't be the case: the world was still spinning on its axis, after all. Still, this was a bit of an anti-climax.

Umbridge croaked. Like a frog, or, more accurately, a toad. Strangely, she didn't seem bemused by this. Instead, she croaked again, happily, and shuffled round, looking away from Mistress Weatherwax. And then she moved – not walking, or any variation on the theme. She hopped away. The class watched her go, in stunned silence, her happy "ribbit" still audible as she got further and further away.

Nanny Ogg shook her head. "You oughtn't have done that Esme – she'll cause trouble, mark my words!"

"She didn't show respect – if you ain't got respect, you've got nothing."

Nanny Ogg shrugged. There wasn't much she could argue against that with, because it was true. Respect was everything. Hermione was watching them both in awe, but Harry and Ron were still watching Umbridge recede into the distance.

"What's she doing now – is she… She is, isn't she?" Ron asked, choking back laughter.

Harry shaded his eyes against the sun. "She's… Yes, she's trying to catch flies with her tongue. She's quite good at it actually. Surprisingly nimble."

"She's not going to be happy about that, is she?" Ron commented, his tone worried.

Harry sobered up. "No, she won't be. I wouldn't like to be around Mistress Weatherwax when it wears off!"

"If it wears off, I think you'll find boy."

They looked round to find Mistress Weatherwax standing over them, her arms folded in satisfaction and a grim smile on her face. She was watching Umbridge, who was now hopping in the direction of the Great Lake. Harry and Ron looked at each other, contemplating what their teacher had said.

"Awesome!" Ron exclaimed, with a wide grin.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sadly, whatever it was that had been done to Umbridge did, eventually, wear off – although not for about a week, by which point Colin Creevey had earned himself a small fortune selling magical pictures of her hopping around the school. He had even managed to track her down to a makeshift shelter by the lake, where she had set up home on a lily pad. Questions were raised as to how she had managed to get the pad to support her weight, given her unusual state, but nobody really wanted to think too hard about it.

It had been a nice break from insanity, but sadly, Umbridge came back deciding to really crack the whip. Perhaps understandably, spending a week living as a frog had done little to improve her temperament. It was a mark of Mistress Weatherwax's iron will that she refused to be driven from the castle; Umbridge was now overseeing all her lessons, cracking down on every little thing. If it weren't for the fact that so much of the lesson was manual labour anyway, then the students would just have been sitting around watching the two women snipe at each other. Although it had to be said, Harry and Ron often did that anyway. It was amusing seeing Umbridge so comprehensively outclassed. Even the Inquisitorial Squad were distancing themselves from their overlord now.

However, amusing as it was to watch Umbridge fall ever closer to a nervous breakdown, it was only a matter of time before she pushed the students too far. As many teachers would claim, there is little as inventively cruel as bored or angry teenagers, and Hogwarts was a school for magic… If it weren't for the fact that Snape terrified most of the students, Potions classes would have been a riot, and Umbridge did not have Snape's darkness, just his spitefulness. Tempers were already boiling, and at this rate Umbridge would be faced with an explosion.

The detonation came three weeks into term.

Harry and his friends were sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, relaxing over lunch. Luna had joined them, and was offering interpretations of Ron's unintelligible remarks, while the red head worked his way steadily through a mountain of food. There was a refreshing air of jollity around the Hall, easily explained by Umbridge's absence – she was probably doing something that would cause them more stress later, of course, but at the moment, they were all on a break. In fact, Fred and George were in the initial stages of a promising food fight, which would ordinarily have had Hermione seething. Since even the staff were slacking off in rebellion against Umbridge though, she had rather loosened up in regards to the rules, which could only be a good thing as far as her friends were concerned.

Harry was roaring with laughter at the sight of Fred being hit in the face with a piece of steak and kidney pie, when his eye was caught by a first year he vaguely recognised heading to the table. The boy looked as if he had been crying, and was holding his hand to his chest as if in great pain. Harry stood up, and made his way over to where the boy was sitting.

"Hey there… Nigel, isn't it?" he enquired kindly. The first year looked up at him, surprised, and nodded. This close, Harry could tell that Nigel had indeed been crying; his eyes were bloodshot and his face flushed. "What's wrong? You look like you've hurt yourself." Fear flashed across the boys face for a moment, but he held out his hand for Harry to see. He looked at Nigel's outstretched hand, and his guts tightened with rage. The skin on the back of Nigel's hand was covered in blood, and the distinctive scars that signified use of a blood quill. The thought that Umbridge would make an eleven year old mutilate himself made Harry seriously consider the pros and cons of use of the Killing Curse, but he quashed the desire with an effort.

"Well, that's quite a nasty cut, isn't it? Come on, come with me…" He placed his hand on Nigel's shoulder, gently leading him towards Hermione, who was watching it all curiously, unable to hear what was happening. "Hermione, would you mind taking Nigel here and getting him some of that essence of Murtlap? He's cut his hand."

His friend blinked, confused, and then her eyes flashed with anger as the penny dropped. She nodded quickly, smiling at Nigel and leading him away, making small talk as they went. Harry sat down again, his appetite gone, burning with anger. Fred and George looked at him, disbelieving.

"Did Umbridge seriously get a first year to use that Blood Quill?"

Harry nodded tightly, and the twins looked at each other before standing up.

"Where are you two going?" Ron asked, watching them in trepidation.

"Things to prepare little brother! She's gone too far this time… Harry, quick question: can we borrow your trunk?"

Harry looked at them suspiciously. "What for?"

"To send Umbridge round the twist once and for all of course!" Fred cried out.

"There can be no nobler goal Harry, believe us." George added to his twin's declaration.

"Fine, but if it eats you, I accept no responsibility."

"We wouldn't have it any other way. Come on George…"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

It was a week later. Fred and George's grand prank had been conspicuous by its absence, and Hermione had started to suggest that nothing was going to happen. This had been shot down by Ron and Ginny – they _knew_ that Fred and George never backed down after a promise had been made, whether it was a sensible one or not. Harry suspected they were waiting for an opportunity to cause maximum embarrassment and harassment to Umbridge – which would, in his opinion, be about the time that the external invigilators arrived at Hogwarts. They were people Umbridge would want to impress, should she actually be capable of such a thing.

He was proved right. Harry was making his way to the library with Luna, in the absence of lessons that afternoon, to give her a little guidance on a charms essay. As they walked through the castle, chattering aimlessly, Umbridge was coming the other way, leading a group of very, very old witches and wizards. She was spouting more propaganda about her regime at the top of her voice, her audience apparently deaf – apparently, because Harry could see at least two of them rolling their eyes.

It was when they passed the hallway down to the dungeons that chaos started.

There was a loud clattering, as of hundreds of tiny feet on stone floor, and the Luggage burst from the corridor, leaping towards Umbridge, who shrieked, jumping back and drawing her wand. She scattered spells at the Luggage, which had no effect whatsoever. The chest simply thudded into her, knocking her down and drawing a strangled scream from her. She backed away as fast as she could, while the invigilators, and Harry and Luna, simply watched events unfold, in a combination of shock and apathy. The Luggage settled on the floor, ominously still. Umbridge stood up carefully, her wand aimed, shakily, at the trunk. There was a moment when nothing happened.

The Luggage's lid flipped open, and dozens, hundreds of objects shot out, bursting into dazzling light with deafening bangs. They were fireworks. They cascaded around the group Umbridge had been shepherding, and they all drew their wands instantly, shouting out in confusion. Umbridge led them in casting Vanishing and Extinguishing charms, but there seemed to be spells on the fireworks – every time a spell hit one, the firework spawned copies of itself. Soon, the hundreds of fireworks were becoming thousands, and they were still spewing from the Luggage.

Umbridge turned tail and ran, the invigilators following her, casting protective shields behind them. As they ran, the Luggage extended its legs once more, and charged after them, still vomiting forth fireworks from its seemingly limitless interior. By now, hordes of students were converging on the scene, pointing and laughing at the chaos before them. Harry and Luna grinned at each other, and ran after the Luggage, joining the crowd. By the time they reached the entrance hall, seemingly the entire school was there, even the staff, who were typically doing nothing. Harry noticed Ridcully and Nanny Ogg both doubled up in raucous laughter, with Professors Flitwick and Sprout hiding behind them, concealing their amusement. Mistress Weatherwax and Professor McGonagall looked like carbon copies of each other, both frowning disapprovingly, although not doing anything to counter the chaos.

The fireworks were still spewing forth, and the sky was lit up by the flashes of light. Some of the fireworks seemed to be changing shape, spelling out insulting messages, all directed at Umbridge, naturally, while others simply created vast shapes when they exploded. Others gave off sparks that sank down to the crowd below, and there were shrieks of surprise as things started to happen; peoples robes changing colour, their hair rearranging itself in weird and wonderful styles, and messages scorching themselves into robes.

Harry grinned, hugely. Fred and George had outdone themselves. This would probably have given Umbridge a heart attack anyway, but doing it in front of Ministry officials, who seemed not to like her that much anyway? That was a recipe for instant dismissal, he felt.

Of course, he was making the assumption that this was all the twins had arranged… All of a sudden, all the fireworks cut out, as if they had snapped out of existence. The strange effects they had caused cancelled, drawing sighs of relief from those who had been affected. There was silence for a moment, as the crowd watched Umbridge, who was turning an intriguing purple colour. Just when Harry was starting to think that nothing else was going to happen, there was a dull roar from inside the castle. Instantly, everyone swivelled to see what was happening.

Another firework was racing through the entrance hall, demanding passage through the doors. But this firework was vast, about the size of Harry himself, and it was shaped like a dragon. As it raced through the doors, students diving out of the way, its 'mouth' opened wide, letting out another deep roar, and Harry felt its heat as it zipped past him, bearing down on Umbridge like an arrow. She raised her wand, but her dejected expression suggested she was aware of the futility of her actions; Harry couldn't tell if her spells had no effect, or whether she simply didn't cast any. Whatever had happened, Umbridge vanished as the dragon firework seemed to swallow her whole, convulsing before exploding in a shower of bright sparks.

Umbridge looked rather like a small piece of dynamite had blown up in her face; she was covered in ash, her fluffy pink cardigan tattered and smoking, and her hair had been blown out of its rigid bun into a stiff, blasted back quiff. It was at that point that Harry felt he could actually see her spirit break. Everyone knew that she could not come back from this.

And then Fred and George appeared, as if from thin air, soaring over the crowd on broomsticks, to adulation and applause. They flew a victory lap around the crowd, ducking down to accept the occasional high five, before rising, the eyes of the crowd fixed on them. With a practised flick of their wands, the still softly glowing sparks from the firework coalesced into another blazing message:

**Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes!**

"Our new shop, opening in Diagon Alley at the end of the week!" Fred called out, to much celebration.

"Discount for any Hogwarts students! Be there or be square!" George added, with a manic grin.

Another cheer went up, and the twins dipped down towards the Ministry invigilators. Reaching into their pockets, they each pulled out a vial of silvery mist.

"You might find this interesting Madame," Fred commented to the nearest invigilator. "A first year's eye view of detention with the good Inquisitor there. Riveting stuff, I assure you!"

"Couldn't agree more – you should distribute it to the press!" George threw his own vial to one of the other invigilators, who caught it more out of reflex than anything, looking at it nervously. With that, the twins soared up into the air again.

"Remember: Weasley's Wizard Wheezes! Diagon Alley – we'll see you there!"

And then they were gone, flying off in the direction of Hogsmeade, specks fading rapidly in the distance. Umbridge was trying frantically to restore order, but failing miserably; the students hadn't exactly respected her the day before, but now, seeing her so thoroughly humiliated, she would never be anything more than a joke to them. Harry was joining in the cheering and laughter, his cheeks hurting he was grinning so much.

Then he fell to the floor, clutching his scar, as a vision struck him full force.

_Sirius was sprawled on the floor of a strange room, his chest heaving as if he had run a marathon. His hair was lank with sweat, and his face was wracked with pain. The sound of footsteps echoed around the room, and Voldemort appeared, his wand pointing idly at Sirius._

"_This would be painless if you would simply co-operate, Black… You don't have to die, just do as I ask. That's not unreasonable, is it? Just one, small task, and then you can go."_

_Sirius choked out a derisive snort, glaring up at the Dark Lord. "How much… of an idiot do you think I am? You'll kill me no matter what, I know that. I'll be damned if the last thing I do in this world is help you!"_

_Voldemort's eyes went cold. "You will help me Black. And then yes, you will die."_

"Harry, Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry's eyes snapped open, startling Luna, who was kneeling over him, her eyes wide with concern.

"He's got Sirius."

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Harry charged up the stairs as fast as he could. Luna was trailing him, calling after him.

"Harry, where are you going? Don't be stupid!"

He whirled round, his eyes blazing. "My godfather – the only family I've ever cared about – is being tortured by Voldemort. I'm going to rescue him. Either come with me or stay here, but don't slow me down, ok?"

Luna frowned, hurt by his hasty words. "Of course I'm coming with you Harry. You're my best friend. But how are you planning on getting there, exactly? You can't apparate, and airspace around the Ministry is protected by tribbles."

"Luna, there's no such thing – "

"Yes there is!" she snapped insistently. "They eat brooms. Daddy's seen them."

"Ok, fine, tribbles exist, but it's all irrelevant, because I'm going to use the Floo."

Luna stopped dead, considering this. "You want to break into Umbridge's office, probably by force, and then break into the Ministry."

"Yes."

"Ah, ok. Let's go then!" She set off at speed, leaving a very confused Harry in her wake. Shaking his head, he set off after her.

Outside Umbridge's office, they were met with a problem. Luna drew her wand, and tapped the lock with her wand. "_Alohamora._" Nothing happened. Frustrated, Harry did the spell himself, but his efforts were in vain.

"Damn it!" Harry paced back and forth for a moment, thinking it over. They needed to be in the office, but couldn't charm the door open. He knew a couple of spells that might destroy the door, but wasn't willing to risk it, under the circumstances. He made his decision. "Luna, go and find Hermione – tell her what's happened. I'm going to stay here and try and get in, alright?"

"Harry – "

"Please Luna!"

The blonde girl sighed, and jogged off back the way they had come from. Harry turned back to the door, considering his options. Now that he was on his own, blowing the door up did seem a little more tempting…

SQUEAK?

Harry jumped at the sound, and sighed. "Hey there Ratty. Good to see you, but I'm really busy right now, ok?"

The Death of Rats looked up at him. SQUEAK. SQUEAK SQUEAK?

"I'm trying to get through this door, but it's locked, and I don't know the counter-charm."

SQUEAK! The Death of Rats scampered up the door frame, and perched on the door knob, precariously. There was a flash, and the door swung open. The lock fell away, clattering against the floor as the Death of Rats sheathed his scythe. Harry blinked.

"Oh. Er… Thanks!" Harry walked into the office, and moved to the fireplace, quickly. He snatched some Floo powder from the jar on the mantelpiece, and lit the fire with a quick charm. He threw the powder in, and the flames turned green, ready for travel. He was about to jump in, but hesitated. Should he go in on his own? He didn't want to get his friends hurt, but going in alone was suicide, undoubtedly…

"Going somewhere, Mr Potter?"

Harry froze, closing his eyes in exasperation. He turned around slowly, to find Umbridge standing behind him. She did not look happy. This may have had something to do with the fact that she still looked like someone had tried to blow her up, although at least her clothes had stopped smouldering now. Worse, Malfoy and other members of the Inquisitorial Squad were standing behind her. It had to be said, they _did_ look happy. Very happy, actually. Umbridge advanced towards him, tapping her wand slowly, rhythmically, against her waist, her eyes bulging with distaste.

"You know Potter, I'm tired of this. Tired of this school, tired of the idiots who live here, tired of the freaks that Dumbledore hired… Tired of you. Did you seriously think you could break into my office and get away with it? Where were you going? Or… Were you trying to talk to someone? Dumbledore, perhaps?"

Harry shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Thought I'd get in early at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. You know, before the crowds get there. I thought they had some good products, didn't you?"

Umbridge glowered, and opened her mouth to yell at him, when the sound of someone running came to their attention. Hermione burst through the door, calling out as she did so "Harry! Wait up, Luna got us, we're coming with you!" She tailed off as she saw Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad, her mouth falling open in shock. Harry cast an apologetic look her way, as Ron, Luna and Ginny followed her in, skidding to a halt behind her.

"Well well well, the whole gang's here. How marvellous! And where were you planning on going, Miss Granger?"

"Erm… We… Weren't?"

Umbridge's glare suggested that Hermione's feeble response hadn't been convincing. "Miss Granger, I suggest you try something a little more convincing. The truth, perhaps, although I realise this is an unfamiliar concept for you all!"

Behind her back, Harry shook his head furiously at Hermione. She took the hint, and said nothing. Umbridge turned back to Harry, a nasty expression passing across her face. "I don't care how long it takes Potter, but you will tell me the truth. Malfoy!"

The blonde boy stopped smirking, and almost stood at attention. "Yes Professor?"

"Fetch Professor Snape…"

Malfoy darted out of the room, and a hush fell across the group. Umbridge switched her glower between Harry and his friends constantly, but did not say anything. Perhaps she wasn't as stupid as she looked. Several minutes later, Malfoy returned, the Potions Master walking imperiously behind him. Snape's eyes flickered over the group, but betrayed nothing.

"Professor. You sent for me?"

"Headmistress, thank you Snape. And yes. Potter was trying to Floo through my fireplace. I wish to know why."

"Have you asked him?"

"Of course I have, you fool! He refuses to answer! I want some Veritaserum, as soon as possible."

Snape smirked, nastily. "Certainly… Headmistress. I can have some brewed in, approximately, a month. I trust you can control Potter until then?"

"A month? That's not good enough Snape!" Umbridge shrieked at him.

"My apologies headmistress, but there is little I can do. It's not something I habitually keep in stock, being a restricted potion… If that is all, I shall wish you good night."

But a thought had occurred to Harry. Snape was in the Order. He could do something to help Sirius. All was not lost, if he could just explain without alerting Umbridge… "Professor! He's got Padfoot! They're at the place where it's hidden!"

Umbridge and Snape both turned to Harry, her face sharp with anger and excitement, his merely looking bored.

"Who is Padfoot? What is hidden? Snape, explain this!"

Snape shrugged. "I have never been able to understand Potter when he tries to make sense; when he is talking gibberish, I fear it may be impossible for even the most gifted wizard to divine his meaning."

And he walked out, without a backward glance. Harry's heart sank. What was to happen now? Umbridge was just standing there, now beginning to look desperate. She looked at Harry, and he realised that she was sweating. She was tapping her wand against her hips again, a faster rhythm now, as if she was working herself up to something. Time to try and talk his way out of it.

"Professor, I think this is all going a little far, don't you? I mean – "

"Shut up!" Umbridge screamed at him. He stopped talking, shocked. Her eyes were wild, bulging out of her face, and a vein in her face was throbbing. She walked slowly towards him, raising her arm until her wand was aimed at his chest. "I am putting a stop to this, right now. You have committed treason, and escaped without penalty. This entire school defies my authority, and I will not stand for that any longer! Desperate times call for desperate measures, Potter."

She paused, licking her lips in anticipation. "You have one last chance to tell me the truth, and then I use the Cruciatius curse on you."

"You wouldn't dare…" Harry whispered, aghast.

"I will have order! No matter the cost. Last chance Potter…"

Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath, but Harry said nothing. Umbridge smiled cruelly.

"So be it…"

"No!"

Everyone looked round as Hermione screamed out. She looked at Harry, distraught. "Just – just tell her Harry."

"Tell me what?"

"About the weapon. Dumbledore, he… He wanted us to keep an eye on it for him, let him know when it was ready."

Harry looked away, convinced that if he looked at Hermione, something about her would cause him to give the game away. He didn't know where his friend was going with this, but she had hooked Umbridge's interest.

"And what does this weapon do?"

"We don't know, he didn't tell us… It's something the new staff have been working on." Hermione could apparently lie with ease. Harry was impressed.

"Of course… It all makes sense now! Granger, Potter – I would like to see this weapon…"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Hermione led them through the Forbidden Forest at a furious rate, seemingly making as much nose as she could. Given that Umbridge had confiscated their wands, Harry did not think this a good idea. Even worse was that Hermione was leading them down the path to Aragog's lair, which he had a feeling she was unaware of…

"Hermione! Slow down, we don't want to go this way…"

She ignored him, or possibly simply didn't hear him – he was speaking quietly to avoid alerting Umbridge. She was walking behind them, and it sounded like she was nearly hyperventilating. Harry smiled, with cold satisfaction. A few moments later, she started calling out to Hermione, ordering her to stop. Hermione ignored her briefly, but then Umbridge let out a loud bang from her wand.

"Enough!"

Hermione halted, and turned around. Umbridge glowered at them both. After a moment, realisation seemed to dawn. "There is no weapon, is there?"

Harry and Hermione looked and each other, and shook their heads, waiting for the hammer to fall. The vein in Umbridge's head was throbbing, once more, and she raised her wand, a manic look in her eye. Before she could say anything though, something shot over her head, thudding into the tree next to her. She shrieked, and whirled round, snapping off a stream of sickly yellow light.

Her assailant was a centaur, and her spell struck him full force in the chest. He reared back, roaring in anger more than pain, and Umbridge quailed in terror. It would have been bad enough if there had been only one centaur; it seemed though, that there was an entire herd watching them. And they were all levelling bows at the terrified Inquisitor. Umbridge backed away slowly, her wand still aiming at the centaurs, but they seemed content, for the moment, simply to threaten her.

"Stay back! Stay back, I'm warning you!"

"You warn us, human?" One of the centaurs stepped forward, pawing at the earth with his hooves in his anger. "This is our forest – we have allowed Hagrid entrance, but even he is unwelcome now. He has polluted our forest. You seek to desecrate it with murder, and we should stay back, you say? Let you order us around?"

"This forest is owned by – "

Umbridge screamed again as another arrow whipped towards her, and she deflected it with a hasty shield charm. The centaurs started to advance, slowly, their eyes unwavering. Umbridge backed away, and, with a quivering hand, withdrew the wands she had confiscated.

"Potter, Granger, stop them! Stop the filthy beasts!"

She threw them their wands, and Harry snatched them from the air, his fingers closing tightly around the shaft in relief. He threw Hermione her wand, and looked at her. They both shrugged, and sheathed their wands.

"What… what are you doing? Don't just stand there!"

"We would, but we don't know any spells we could use against them Professor. You haven't taught us any practical magic, after all," Harry responded, acidly. Umbridge's eyes widened, and she turned back to the advancing herd.

"Stay back, I say! _Bombardia!_"

The blasting curse struck the earth in the middle of the herd, and they scattered, firing off arrows in retaliation. Harry pulled Hermione behind a tree, and they watched the chaos unfold. Umbridge was firing spells off randomly, but seemed to be holding her ground; she was deceptively skilled.

And then the earth started to shake.

The battle halted, for a moment, as the combatants looked around in anticipation. The silence was broken by Grawp, who burst through the trees, turning them into kindling without breaking stride. He charged straight through the herd, but they avoided his huge feet, shooting arrows at him with wild abandon. Grawp roared, swinging his hands wildly, and Umbridge took the opportunity to try and sneak away. She might have managed, if her vindictiveness had not led her to cast a final spell at the lead centaur. His shoulder was sliced open, spurting blood from the wound, and he roared in pain.

Umbridge turned and ran, but several of the centaurs chased her down, grabbing her between them and carrying her off. Her screams slowly faded away in the distance, and Harry and Hermione looked at each other, slightly dazed by proceedings.

"I think discretion is the better part of valour, don't you?" Harry whispered to his friend. She nodded, and they crept away, back the way they had come. As they ran, Harry was running through their options. This had been a serious set back; Sirius could be dead by now… No, he told himself, firmly. He can't be.

It was about then that he ran full tilt into Ron and Ginny.

"Hey, watch where you're going mate! Anyone'd think you're in a hurry or something…"

Harry glared at him. "Well actually Ron, yes, we are. How'd you get here, anyway?"

Ron waved a hand dismissively. "Wasn't hard to get rid of Malfoy and his goons, was it Ginny? And don't worry, Luna's just getting transportation. Where's Umbridge?"

"The centaurs carried her off. What do you mean, transportation?"

Ron forced a nervous grin as Luna appeared, leading some very strange looking beasts behind her. Harry recognised them at once. Thestrals.

"Here we go Harry!" Luna smiled brightly, unfazed by proceedings. "Shall we go?"


	18. To the Ministry

Chapter 18 – To the Ministry 

"Cheer up, Cohen," said Truckle the Uncivil, "At least we got some loot this time!"

"Pah! You call _that_ loot?" said Cohen sourly, gesturing to the small pile of chalices, candlesticks and vestments lying beside the much larger pile of nick-knacks emblazoned with the slogan: 'A gift from St. Paul's Cathedral'.

"It wasn't what you'd call your top-of-the-range temple," conceded Boy Willie.

"You're telling me!" cried Cohen, "Did you see that altar? How are you supposed to tie a nubile young virgin to that? No ropes, no chains; nothing! And that high priest…"

"He _did _curse us," said Caleb the Ripper.

"Well, ye-e-s," said Cohen, "but not properly. 'Shove off you daft old bastards' isn't a real, demon-worshipping high priest's curse, is it?"

He fell back into a sullen silence, leaving the rest of the Horde to paw through the mound of loot. He was not enjoying this new world. Nobody here seemed to be aware of the conventions. Dark towers did not harbour malevolent evil. No monsters dwelt in the sprawling dungeons. Domed temples were guarded by elderly men in dresses, not axe-wielding eunuchs. Worst of all, the Dark Lord seemed positively shy. He had no fortress to infiltrate, no great army ravaging the land. It was as if he did not want to be found at all!

"Perhaps it's time to give up," he muttered. After all, there must be plenty of Dark Lords out there in the multiverse. Why hang around to fight a Dark Lord who did not want to fight?

"Hey," he said, turning to the others, "pick all that up. We're…" He paused. Something had caught his eye. Five dark shapes, black against the golden evening sky, had descended from the clouds. As they drew closer Cohen could see that they were skeletal horses, flying on bat-like wings. Each horse had a rider crouched low over its neck. They passed over the Horde at great speed, circled a skyscraper and vanished out of sight, spiralling down towards street level.

"Cohen? What's up?" said Caleb as Cohen leapt to his feet.

"Leave the loot," said Cohen, smiling his diamond smile, "We've got 'im!"

X X X

Harry slipped from his Thestral's back, very grateful to return to solid ground. Behind him Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Luna dismounted, their faces tinged an unhealthy green.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Harry asked, gazing around the dim back alley, with its vandalized telephone box and overflowing skip. It hardly looked like the entrance to a government building.

"Yeah," said Ron, "My Dad took me to work with him once. This is the visitors' entrance."

He crossed over to the dilapidated telephone box, weaving slightly as he tried to regain his balance. The others moved to join him, leaving their Thestrals to rummage contentedly in the skip, and squeezed into the phone box behind Ron.

"Harry, you're nearest: dial six two four four two," he said.

Harry turned the dial, frowning impatiently each time as he waited for it to right itself. They did not have time to waste. Sirius could be dying, even dead, while they stood waiting.

A cool female voice spoke from the air:

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"What? Who cares? Just let us –"

"Please state your name and business."

"Oh for God's sake… Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood," Harry said very quickly, "We're here to rescue someone."

"Thank you," said the voice, "Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes."

Five badges slid out of the chute designed to return unused coins. Harry glanced at the topmost as he shoved them into his pocket. It read: 'Harry Potter, Rescue Mission'.

"Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium".

"Fine!" snapped Harry, "Whatever. Just hurry up!"

The telephone box began to shake as it slid down into the pavement. As the alleyway vanished above their heads, soft golden light swept over their ankles. They were descending into a vast, deserted hall, bigger than a cathedral. The walls were lined with fireplaces, all unlit. Ahead of them was a group of golden statues standing in the middle of a fountain: a wizard, a witch, a centaur, a house elf and a goblin.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening," said the cool, female voice. The door swung open and the five friends piled out into the Atrium.

"Where now?" Hermione asked.

"This way," said Harry, striding towards the far end of the hall.

"How do you know?" asked Ginny, jogging to catch up.

"I… I just do!" snapped Harry. He had no time to explain about the dreams he had been having; about how he had been unwittingly seeing into Voldemort's mind. He knew where we had to go because Voldemort had been there before.

The security desk lay ahead of him but there was no sign of the guard. The chain on the golden gates was unlocked. Harry paused.

"Someone should stay here in case, err, someone turns up or something," he said awkwardly. He could not ask his friends to face the danger ahead. Sirius was his family, not theirs.

"And how are we going to warn you?" asked Ginny, "You could be miles away."

"We're coming with you, mate," said Ron firmly.

Harry sighed. He should have known.

"Alright then. Wands out."

They passed cautiously through the gates. The hallway beyond was empty. Harry crossed over to the lift Voldemort that had taken in his dream. It too was unlocked. He pulled the grille aside and his friends stepped in. Harry was surprised to find that he did not have to think about which button to press; his hand twisted round and pushed number nine as if by instinct.

The lift descended, rattling and clattering so loudly that Harry was sure it would rouse every security guard in the building. As it came to a halt a cool female voice announced:

"Department of Mysteries."

The grille slid open. The corridor beyond was disturbingly familiar to Harry: the black stones glowing with a green light, the plain black door straight ahead. Harry moved slowly towards it, constantly glancing back and forth, his ears straining for any suspicious sounds.

He reached the door without incident. It opened with a touch. The room beyond was round, lined with identical black doors. Candles burning with blue flames were set in brackets between them. The black, marble floor shimmered like water beneath his feet. As soon as they had all passed into the room the door slammed shut behind them. The wall began to spin, faster and faster, turning the candle flames in an unbroken neon streak. As the wall slowed to a halt, Harry realised that he had no idea which door they had just come through.

"Security spell," he muttered. A cold, hard feeling settled on his stomach as he realised just how reckless he had been to come here.

"Which way now?" asked Ginny. Harry shrugged. Their only choice was to keep moving. He crossed to the door straight ahead of him. The room beyond was dark. It looked like an office, with desks and filing cabinets, laid out around a large glass tank filled with murky green water.

"No, not this way," Harry said, waving the others back. He did not like the feel of this room and he could see things stirring in the dark water.

"Wait," said Hermione, "_Flagrate!" _

The tip of her wand glowed like a blowtorch. She drew a flaming cross on the office door and stepped back. The room spun, a red blur now mixed with the blue streak of the candle flame. When it was still again, one door was still marked with its fiery cross.

Harry chose another door at random. This one was much larger than the first. It was filled with shelves, loaded with timepieces of all shapes and sizes. There were grandfather clocks and sundials, hourglasses and stopwatches, wristwatches and pocket watches, all glittering like jewels in the soft half-light. In the very centre of the room was a great glass bell jar. As he approached, Harry could see that it contained a humming bird that was continually dying, only to be reborn from an egg and die again.

Harry was about to usher his friends back into the round room when he heard a faint cry in the distance.

"Sirius!" he shouted, sprinting towards the far end of the room.

"Harry, wait!" Hermione hissed but Harry did not listen. Sirius was here. He was being hurt. He had to save him.

There was a door ahead, slightly ajar. Harry pushed it aside, wand raised, a stunning spell on his lips, but there was nobody to be seen. This room was even bigger than the last, the ceiling lost in shadow. Rows of tall, dusty shelves lay ahead, dwindling into the distance.

"What are they?" said Ron, staring at the nearest shelf. Each one held a neat line of small, dusty glass balls. Some were dull and opaque but others glowed softly with an inner light. Each one had its own label. Some looked fairly recent, while others were so faded that they had become illegible.

"There must be thousands of them…" said Ginny softly.

Harry was about to reply when they heard the cry again, closer now. It was definitely a man's voice. Turning towards the sound, he could see a light in the distance. Hermione tried to caution him but he was already running. The others followed, powerless to restrain him.

He slowed to a brisk walk as the light grew stronger, wand thrust out ready to cast. There were no sounds ahead of him but that did not mean anything: Sirius's captors could easily have cast a silencing charm.

Harry came upon the source of the light, a glowing spell the size and shape of a football, hovering above the space where one row of shelves ended and another began. There was no sign of Sirius, or Voldemort. There was no sign of any struggle; nothing, apart from the light spell, to indicate that anybody had been there at all.

"Sirius!" Harry called, turning round in a circle, "Sirius?"

"Harry… there's no-one here," said Hermione.

"He _is _here! I saw him. Sirius!"

Harry paced up and down, glancing along other rows of shelves, all deserted.

"Sirius! _Sirius!"_

"Harry, shut up!" hissed Ginny, "What if You-Know-Who is…?"

Ron grabbed Harry's arm.

"Harry. Look," he said hoarsely, pointing to one of the shelves, "Harry, it's got your name on it."

Harry, who was shorter than Ron, had to stand on tiptoes to read the label affixed to the glowing orb:

'S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter'

"What is it?" Ginny asked.

"Harry, I think we should go," said Hermione fearfully.

"But… it's got my name on it," said Harry.

"Harry, this isn't right. We need to go. Just leave it. Sirius isn't here. We have to go, now."

"But… it's mine," Harry said, reaching for the little orb. It fitted snugly his hand. He had expected it to feel cold, like stone, but he was surprised to find that it was pleasantly warm.

"Very good, Potter. Now turn around nice and slowly and give me the prophecy."

Harry turned. A ring of dark figures had materialised out of the shadows; men and women in black robes, their faces concealed behind bone white masks. They were covering Harry and his friends with their wands. One was standing slightly ahead of the others, his free hand extended.

"Give me the prophecy, Potter. Now."

Harry recognised the slow, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy.

"Where's Sirius?" Harry demanded, raising his wand to cover Malfoy. One of the hooded figures laughed. She had a high, shrieking woman's voice.

"Aww!" the woman crooned, "Did the ickle baby fink his nasty dweam was _weal_?"

"Where's Sirius?" Harry repeated. He tried to count the Death Eaters but their dark robes merged into one another in the gloom.

"You really should learn to tell the difference between dreams and reality, Potter," sneered Malfoy.

"It… it _wasn't _a dream! I –"

"The Dark Lord _knows_," crowed the woman, "He always knows, always sees what his enemies will do!"

"But I heard him!" Harry cried desperately.

The woman threw back her hood, revealing the pale and sunken features of Bellatrix Lestrange. She pressed the tip of her wand to her throat, opened her mouth and let out a long and terrible scream. It sounded it exactly like Sirius.

Bellatrix laughed hysterically, turning her wand back on Harry.

"Oh, how I long to hear my dear cousin scream so!"

"Enough, Bellatrix," said Malfoy sternly, "There will be time enough for that later. Now, Potter: the prophecy."

"The what?"

"The prophecy you are holding in your hand," said Malfoy slowly, "Do not play with us, Potter. We are the servants of the Dark Lord. We are not merciful. Give it to us."

"Why all this talk, Lucius?" growled a tall Death Eater at Malfoy's shoulder, "_Accio prophecy!"_

Harry felt the orb in his hand give a lurch towards the Death Eater but he grasped it tight, pulling it close to his chest.

"You fool, Dolohov!" Malfoy cried, "You blundering idiot, you could have smashed it!"

Dolohov muttered a reply, prompting a fresh rebuke from Malfoy. While he was momentarily distracted, Harry leant towards Hermione.

"When I say," he murmured, trying to move his lips as little as possible, "Smash shelves. Pass it on."

Hermione gave a tiny nod and began to relay the message to the others. Malfoy turned his attention back to Harry.

"The prophecy, Potter."

"Why?" Harry asked, playing for time, "Why's it so important?"

"The Dark Lord wishes to hear the prophecy in full. It concerns him greatly." Malfoy sounded bemused, as if surprised that Harry would even ask the question.

"So… so why are we here? Why the trick? Why didn't you pick it up yourselves?"

"A prophecy can only be retrieved by one whom it concerns. Snape is right: you really are a simpleton."

Harry felt a cold twinge at the mention of Snape, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.

"Then why didn't your boss come down and get him himself?" he demanded, wondering if his friends were ready.

"What?" said Bellatrix, "The Dark Lord, walk into the Ministry, a place infested with Aurors? Ha!"

"So he was too scared to…?"

"Silence!" cried Bellatrix, "You _dare _to speak of him so? _Stupefy!"_

"_Protego!" _shouted Malfoy.

The jet of red light that shot from Bellatrix's wand stuck the shield Malfoy conjured between her and Harry, sending it ricocheting along the row of shelves. It struck a shelf, shattering several prophecies. Tiny, pearly white figures rose from the remnants, reciting some sort of speech but the words were lost beneath Bellatrix and Malfoy's cries.

"Not the boy, Bellatrix! He has the prophecy!"

"Then let me take one of the others! The little one; the girl! Let me torture her while he watches!"

"Very well," said Malfoy. Bellatrix moved towards Ginny but Harry stepped between them.

"No," he said, "You touch my friends and I'll smash the prophecy. It doesn't mean a thing to me. Tell me, what will Voldemort do when he -?"

"Silence!" shrieked Bellatrix, "You dare_, _you _dare _to profane his name with your filthy, Mudblood –"

"_Now_!" Harry cried, "_Reducto!" _

Four voices echoed his. Five spells shot in five different directions. The air was filled with flying glass and white mist as prophecies exploded all around them. The Death Eaters were all shouting, trying to get out of the way and colliding with one another in the confusion.

"Run!" Harry yelled, barging past Malfoy and sprinting for the door.

"Stop him!" Malfoy shouted, "Get the prophecy!"

Harry paused, spun on his heel, cast a Stunning spell towards the Death Eaters without aiming, and then continued his headlong charge for the door. He could hear pounding feet behind him but no spells followed: the Death Eaters were clearly too afraid of damaging the prophecy to attack them.

Harry barrelled through the door and into room filled with time pieces. Hermione was waiting on the other side. She threw the door closed behind him.

"_Colloportus," _she gasped, pointing her wand at the door. There was an odd squelching sound as a seal appeared around the door.

"Wait," said Harry, gazing around, "Where are the others?"

"They… they must have taken a wrong turning," said Hermione, the colour draining from her face.

"Come on," said Harry, taking her hand and dragging her towards the far door, "There's nothing we can do. We have to keep going!"

They were approaching the bell jar with its strange regenerating hummingbird when the door to the store of prophecies exploded in smoke and flame. Three Death Eaters leapt through, wands raised.

"_Impedimenta," _shouted Harry and Hermione. Two of the Death Eaters froze but the third ran forward. Its wand flickered and a file of grandfather clocks leapt from the walls to block Harry and Hermione's path.

"_Stupefy!" _yelled Harry but the Death Eater continued to advance, easily deflecting the spell.

"_Wingardium Leviosa" _said Hermione, sending a grandfather clock rocketing to the ceiling. Harry followed her through the gap in the line, pausing only to cast another, easily blocked, Stunning spell at their pursuer.

They reached the black, circular room just before the Death Eater. Hermione managed to seal the door but they both knew that they had only seconds before it would be blasted apart. Harry's eyes swept the room. The solitary cross still burned on the door to the tank room. There was still no indication which door led back to the lift.

The room spun. Harry was about to head for the door directly ahead of him when it was thrust open. Ginny and Luna stumbled through, bearing an unconscious Ron between them.

"What happened?" Hermione cried as the room span around them yet again.

"Room… full of… planets," Ginny gasped, "Blasting curse… One planet… fell on him."

"How many Death Eaters were following you?" asked Harry.

"Three? Maybe four?" said Luna.

"I think I got one… with the Bat Bogey Hex," said Ginny, with a weak smile.

"Nice one," said Harry, returning the smile, "Come on, this…"

The door ahead of them was thrust open. Bellatrix Lestrange stood there, three Death Eaters crowding behind her

"_Stupefy!" _yelled Harry, Hermione and Luna, temporarily driving the Death Eaters back.

"Here!" said Harry, seizing the nearest door and wrenching it open before the room started to spin again. They rushed in and very nearly tumbled down a flight of broad, stone benches. The room was like a large stone amphitheatre, with tiers of stone benches descending to a flat basin. In the middle of the basin was a stone dais. On the dais stood a crumbling stone arch with a tattered curtain draped across it.

Harry pointed mutely to a door to their left, above the adjacent row of tiered benches. They were halfway towards it, Ginny and Luna still supporting Ron between them, when the door flew open. Six Death Eaters rushed into the room. Harry and his friends threw jinxes at them and turned to run, only to see Bellatrix and her companions barring the way back to the circular room.

The Death Eaters fanned out. They did not cast any spells but used simply used their presence to force Harry and his friends to climb down into the pit. Harry was flinging every hex and curse he could think of at the Death Eaters but what had seemed impressive wand work in the DA meetings was all but impotent against hardened adult duellists. The Death Eaters blocked, deflected or simply ignored his every attack.

"Run!" Harry yelled to his friends, "Don't bother with spells, just _run_!"

Ginny and Luna tried to turn their backs on the Death Eaters but tripped over one another's feet. They staggered sideways, pushing Hermione towards Harry. Harry, still holding the prophecy tight in his free hand, was unable to catch her. Hermione tripped and rolled beneath Harry's feet. Harry wavered for a moment on the edge of a bench, arms flailing, before falling down, bouncing painfully from bench to bench. He hit the bottom of the pit with a last painful thump. He was on his feet in a second, wand raised, but it was too late. Bellatrix had seized Ginny in the confusion and was now clutching fiercely at her hair, her wand pressed at Ginny's throat. Other Death Eaters were moving to cover Hermione and Luna.

"See what happens when you don't co-operate, Potter?" Bellatrix called to Harry.

"Harry!" Ginny shouted, "Don't give it to them, Harry! Don't –"

"Silence!" snarled Bellatrix, "_Crucio!"_

Ginny screamed. Her knees gave way beneath her.

"Let her go!" Harry shouted, starting up the steps towards Bellatrix, "Stop it! Just stop it, you bitch!""

Bellatrix drew her wand back. Ginny was on her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach.

"That was only a taste," said Bellatrix, "The prophecy, now!"

Harry held out the small, spun glass ball. He knew that it was useless; that Bellatrix would not release Ginny, with or without the prophecy, but he had to try. He could not bear to hear her scream like that again.

"Good boy," Bellatrix cooed, as if talking to an obedient pet. She raised her wand:

"_Accio –"_

The door behind her opened with a crash. Five figures leapt in, spells blazing from their wands. Harry recognised them immediately: Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley and Moody. There were cries of pain as several Death Eaters, caught off guard, fell in the first volley.

Chaos erupted all around Harry. Bellatrix whirled away, jets of green light flying from her wand, and he lost sight of her in the confusion. People were rushing in all directions. Brilliant lights, red and blue and green, criss-crossed one another in the air. Voices were crying out spells, or shouting in pain and frustration. A hooded Death Eater appeared at Harry's side, bearing down on him at a dead run.

"_Petrificus Totalus_!" cried Luna, stopping the Death Eater.

"_Depulso!" _said Harry, blasting the paralysed wizard across the room.

Now Lupin appeared in front of them, red faced and breathing heavily.

"Can he walk?" he asked, pointing at Ron. Harry shook his head.

"I'll carry him," said Lupin, "Head for the door. Follow me!"

"Remus!" shouted Harry. A Death Eater was approaching, wand pointed at Lupin. Lupin turned to meet him with an almost bestial growl. His wand twirled, almost too fast to follow. The Death Eater fell back, Lupin pursuing, curse and counter-curse flashing between them like sword blades.

"Get down!" Harry hissed, motioning to his friends to crouch as low as possible. It would have been suicide to move out into the middle of such a fierce battle.

It was difficult to tell how it was going. There were several bodies lying on the benches, indistinct in the haze created by such furious spell casting, but whether they were dead or simply unconscious Harry could not tell. Blasting curses were exploding all over the room, showering both sides with chips of stone. There was a low, throbbing sound like a helicopter's propeller and several figures fell to the ground, but whether they were Death Eaters or members of the Order Harry could not say. Now strange new cries could be heard over the din, coming from the direction of the door:

"Here they are!"

"Dark wizards! Loads of 'em!"

"Up and at 'em, lads!"

"We're gonna cut your tonkers off!"

Harry stared, amazed, as, through the shifting haze, he caught glimpses of half-naked elderly men, the same elderly men he had seen in the graveyard last summer, charging into the room. As before, they were each armed to the teeth with an assortment of battered medieval weaponry. There were cries of surprise as the elderly men ploughed into the battle, cackling gleefully.

Suddenly Lucius Malfoy, his hood lost in the fighting, was standing before Harry.

"The prophecy, _now_, or your friends die!" he snarled, turning his wand on Hermione.

"Hello, goldilocks!" said a voice behind Malfoy. Malfoy turned and was kicked squarely in the crotch by an old man wearing an eye patch. Malfoy crumpled to the floor with an odd wheezing noise.

"Wotcha!" the one-eyed man said to Harry. He bounded past, heading for the dais where Sirius was duelling with Bellatrix.

X X X

_In the endless wastelands that lie beyond time, known in some universes as the Dungeon Dimensions, something stirred. It could not be called a creature, because creatures exist. It was a being without existence; a sad, angry little non-existence that craved only light and shape. It had become aware of something. A tiny chink had been forced in the wall between its dimension and another: a spy hole into reality. The non-creature could feel a presence beyond it. Something deeper than thought, more powerful than instinct drew it towards that presence._

_ Barbarian heroes. _

_ The creature reached out, powerless to control its need to confront its eternal foes…_

X X X

A tentacle, as long and thick as a tree trunk, shot out of the crumbling archway and crushed Sirius against the dais. Bellatrix screamed and leapt back. More tentacles followed, coiling themselves around the dais. The archway trembled and collapsed as more appeared. They seemed to be pulling themselves out of nothing; unravelling out of space itself. More tentacles followed, and claws, and things with eyes and sharp teeth too hideous and rudimentary to be called faces. Claws scraped the ceiling. Tentacles brushed the far walls. The creature towered over the wizards like a child over its toys.

"Now this is more like it!" said Cohen, hefting his sword.


	19. The Battle of the Veil

**Chapter 19: Battle of the Veil**

Harry screamed in rage and fear as his godfather disappeared beneath the writhing mass of tentacles. The… _thing_ defied description. He didn't know what it was, where it had come from, or what it wanted. But he didn't need to be told it was dangerous: every fibre of his being was crying out in terror and disgust. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he raised his wand and cast the strongest fireball he could straight into the centre of the creature's mass.

It gurgled, as if the fireball tickled.

The one-eyed old man turned back to him with a glare. "And you can cut that right out for a start! These bastards feed off magic, you'll only make it stronger."

Harry stared at him, wild eyed. "Then what do we do?"

The old man grinned, his teeth flashing, and spun round to face the creature, swinging his sword as he moved. The creature roared in pain, and the tip of a tentacle went flying across the room, smacking a fleeing Death Eater to the ground. "Hitting them with a big sword tends to do the trick. Up and at 'em lads!" He charged towards the remnants of the Veil, flourishing his sword as if it was weightless, and his companions followed him, their own battle cries ringing in Harry's ears.

"Last one to get it has to clean the swords!"

"We're gonna cut yer tonker off!"

"Hamish, I don't think it's got one…"

"Wut? Well… We'll cut something off!"

The wizards just stood, momentarily frozen and united in incomprehension, and watched as the group of wrinkly old men went to work on the thing. Watching a man clamber onto a hideous creature's back, using his walking stick as a climbing aid, was not something they were accustomed to. But while the Order and the Death Eaters watched, Harry moved. Merlin only knew how, but the weird men were pushing the creature back, splintering the archway to dust beneath it. And that meant he could get to Sirius. He could save him, get him to St. Mungo's, or simply back to Grimmauld Place, he could…

Harry sank to his knees. His godfather wasn't going anywhere.

He stared at the body, unblinking, until his vision started to blur. When he roughly wiped a hand over his eyes, it came away wet, and he realised that he was crying, tears streaming down his face. He tore his gaze away from Sirius, looking round the chamber.

The battle between the Order and the Death Eaters had kicked back into gear; as he watched, Remus punched an anonymous Death Eater in the face, before following up with a curse that blew the man off the ground in a haze of light, throwing him across the room until he impacted against the chamber wall. Tonks was unconscious, her opponent leaping over her fallen body to join the duel – the brawl – with Mad-Eye. The ex-Auror was taking on two Death Eaters already, and doing a fine job. Kingsley was binding Lucius Malfoy with shining chains, but a curse took him in the back before he could finish, and he collapsed.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Harry spun, stabbing his wand out. Hermione took a step back, her eyes going wide, and he hastily lowered his wand. He turned away, not wanting her to see him cry, but she wrapped her arms around him regardless.

"Harry, I'm so sorry."

Harry clenched his eyes shut, trying to shut her out. And then he stood. "Where're the others?"

Hermione blinked. "They're – they're hiding by the benches. Harry –"

"Are they hurt?"

"Well Ron is, obviously, and Ginny's not exactly fit as a fiddle… other than that, we're fine."

"Then we're going to help." Harry's expression darkened, his grim mood filling him. He was going to fight.

"Help who?"

"The Order – I think we'd be a little out of our league with that monstrosity, don't you?"

They both turned to look at the fight between the creature and the old men. Astonishingly, it seemed that the men were winning. The floor around them was certainly covered in blood that was quite clearly not human. Harry couldn't understand it. They looked older than Dumbledore, yet they moved like… well, like killing machines. There was nothing fancy or showy about their technique; they simply placed themselves away from the tentacles, and then hacked away. It was undoubtedly effective though. As Harry watched, the creature slammed a tentacle into the floor, narrowly missing the one-eyed man with the shiny teeth. He smiled contemptuously, before bringing his sword down in an overhead slash. The creature's screech of agony shook the walls, and Hermione nearly fell to the floor. Harry caught her arm.

"Come on."

"Harry, I really don't think –"

"Where's Bellatrix?" Harry ignored Hermione's protests, not even looking round when she stopped talking.

"I'm right here Potter!" Bellatrix spoke triumphantly, from behind him. From where Hermione had been standing. Harry turned, very slowly, and looked at her. She was standing behind Hermione, her wand pressed deeply into his friend's neck. Hermione was quivering with fear.

"Such a shame about my poor ickle cousin, wouldn't you say? Still, that's what you get for being careless I suppose!"

"Shut up!" Harry snarled, his wand arm snapping up, his fingers tight around the length of wood. Bellatrix laughed loudly, and pushed Hermione towards Harry, whipping her wand around as she did so. Her spell slammed into Hermione's back with a flash of purple light, and Hermione screamed in pain even as she was sent flying. She slammed into Harry, and they crumpled to the floor, Harry ending up beneath his friend. The sound of feet alerted him to Bellatrix fleeing, still cackling.

"Hermione, are you all right? Hermione?"

She did not reply, and he pushed her off so that he could sit up. She flopped onto her back, her eyes staring up at him unseeing, and he searched frantically for a pulse. He sat back with a sigh of relief as he found a regular, if slow beat. Looking up, he saw Luna scurrying across the chamber towards them, and she knelt down next to Hermione. Harry grabbed her hand, and looked into her eyes.

"Take care of her."

"What? Where are you going?"

Harry didn't reply, simply standing and walking away. He was watching Bellatrix. The dark witch was cackling as she threw curses around, dancing across the chamber. As Harry stalked her, one of her curses clipped Kingsley as he climbed to his feet, and he fell once more. She threw her head back, her laughter ringing out, and then something threw her backwards, sliding across the floor in a heap.

Dumbledore.

For a brief moment, the cloud of rage over Harry's mind was pierced; everything would be alright now that Dumbledore was here. The Death Eaters would be caught, Hermione would be healed, and Sirius could be brought back.

But then he remembered that nothing could bring back the dead, not even Dumbledore. And Bellatrix had to pay. He turned away from the Headmaster, and met Bellatrix's eyes across the room. She smiled madly, and turned and ran. For what reason, he could not say; avoiding Dumbledore, luring him away – perhaps even scared of him, although he doubted it. He didn't really care. He just ran after her.

* * *

Cohen roared with laughter as he swung his sword again, tearing another tentacle from the thing. Gods, he had missed this. Sure, killing Dark Lords paid the rent – or had done, back in the day – but they didn't give him the exercise that a genuine pan-dimensional, reality warping creature did. He almost felt young again. He hadn't had a challenge like this since the Horde had tried to blow up Dunmanifestin, and at least this time it was something of a fair fight. Not that he minded unfair fights – he just wanted to be the one playing dirty.

Nearby, Caleb was cackling as he sank his claymore deep into the beast's…stomach? Yeah, stomach, Cohen decided. Didn't really matter anyway, it was nearly dead. He leapt onto one of the few tentacles that were still attached, surprisingly spry for a man of his years. He scuttled along the slimy flesh, digging his cane in for support, and adjusted his hold on the pommel of his sword. With a mighty swing, one of the beast's innumerable eyes burst, and the creature roared. Cohen grinned, his teeth dazzling, and hacked away, sensing the end was near.

Sure enough, in a matter of minutes, the creature had fallen. It wasn't surprising. Cohen had a lifetimes experience of dealing with such things, and he wasn't on his own. He turned round, hefting his sword over his shoulder, and frowned. The kid who had hit the creature with a fireball – he was running away, running out of the chamber. Odd that. He'd seemed pretty game for a fight when the creature arrived – misguided of course, but he clearly had spunk. So where was he going?

Ignoring the pretty lights that an old man in a dress was shooting at some bog-standard evil priest-type figures, Cohen followed the lad. Something told him that he'd be led to something of interest.

* * *

Harry burst through the lift doors as they opened, brandishing his wand furiously. He could still hear Bellatrix singing, even if he couldn't see her.

"Ding dong, the wizard's dead! Ding dong, the wizard's dead!"

He walked carefully out into the atrium, eyes alert for movement. Her singing died away, replaced by a constant, quiet sniggering. The acoustics of the room made it impossible for him to locate her, and he crouched by the Fountain of Magical Brethren, barely breathing. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the flutter of a robe, and he whirled round to face it, sweeping his wand at her with a cry of "_Crucio!_"

Bellatrix was blasted from her feet with a shriek of pain, but by the time she hit the floor, she was laughing again. She looked up at him from her prone position, her hair falling about her face, and she just laughed harder.

"You need to mean it boy! Righteous anger won't get you very far with the Unforgiveables! Why don't you give it another go? Practice makes perfect after all…"

"Shut up!" Harry yelled back, shaken both by using the curse, and by the fact it hadn't worked.

"Oh well." Bellatrix shrugged, and faster than Harry could see, she leapt to her feet and cast her own curse. Years of instinct took over, and Harry ducked behind the Fountain. Chips of stone exploded from the floor where the curse hit, and Harry curled up tighter. The cloud of rage had dissipated slightly now, and he was beginning to realise that he may just have fallen in over his head. There came a tapping of heels on stone, and Bellatrix suddenly appeared beside him, flicking her wand at him almost disdainfully. He didn't even have time to blink, let alone shield himself; the curse hit him with such force that he felt a rib crack, and something yanked him backwards. He was in the air for what felt like forever, but his flight was cut short by his painful impact against the wall. He cried out, and dropped the silvery orb that had got him into this mess.

Bellatrix shrieked, and bellowed out a summoning charm, but it was too late. The orb shattered against the stone floor, and a silvery shape appeared from within it, saying something that Harry couldn't make out over the ringing in his ears. He sank to the floor, ignoring the remnants of the prophecy, and watched Bellatrix. She was mumbling to herself in apparent fear, and Harry realised she was going to have to tell Voldemort what had happened. She was working out how to save her own skin.

Something flared with rage behind his eyeballs, and Harry felt his scar burn. Fighting off the pain, he called out to Bellatrix, putting on as brave a face as he could. "You're too late! He already knows, and he's not happy!"

"You lie Potter!"

"No, Bella. He speaks the truth."

Harry shivered, and braced himself against the wall. The voice seemed to come from – well, from nowhere. Voldemort was nowhere to be seen. Harry scrabbled on the floor next to him for his wand, well aware that he wouldn't be putting up much of a fight with broken ribs. He'd go down fighting though, he was damn sure of that. There was a whisper of displaced air, and Voldemort slowly appeared in a cloud of smoke, standing over Bellatrix. She immediately fell to her knees beside him.

"My Lord, we can still retrieve it from him – he was right next to it, he must have heard it! Let me torture the prophecy from his lips Master, I beg of you!"

Voldemort ignored her, staring intently at Harry. He smiled coldly.

"Well Potter? Should I let Bella play with you? Or will you be sensible, and tell me what I wish to know?"

Harry's eyes narrowed in defiance. "I don't know what the prophecy said, and I wouldn't tell you if I did. Go screw yourself."

"So be it." Voldemort sighed theatrically, and drew his wand. "_Crucio!_"

Harry braced himself, but as Voldemort spoke there was a cracking sound, and something leapt in front of him, blocking the curse. It was the centaur from the Fountain. Harry gaped, and looked over at the lifts. Dumbledore was strolling calmly across the atrium, his wand out and his eyes fixed on Voldemort. He was followed by one of the old men who had fought the creature.

"Good evening, Tom. I must say, I did not expect to see you here."

"Life's full of surprises old man, you know that." Voldemort turned his back on Harry casually, as if he was unimportant. Faced with Dumbledore, Harry rather supposed he was, really.

"It was a mistake though. The Aurors will be here soon, and – forgive me Tom, but it seems as if you haven't really achieved anything other than lose a few followers. Hardly your finest hour, hmm?"

Voldemort snarled, and responded with a lightning fast Killing Curse. Dumbledore merely smiled slightly, and twirled his own wand. The wizard statue from the Fountain leapt down, blocking the curse. It exploded, bits of marble flying everywhere, and Dumbledore whipped his wand again; the marble fragments began to whirl around the Headmaster. Dumbledore began to walk towards Voldemort, with his calm smile.

Voldemort inclined his head, and waved his wand in a series of circles. The witch and house-elf statues leapt from their plinths, and charged forward – the witch ran at Dumbledore, only to be thrown into the air, while the house-elf flew at the old man behind Dumbledore. He instantly drew an alarmingly large sword, but it did little damage to the magically reinforced statue. Sparks flew as it absorbed the blows, grappling with the old man. Dumbledore threw a glance over his shoulder, and Voldemort took advantage of his distraction to fire another Killing Curse at him. One of the marble fragments zipped to intercept it, exploding into tiny, useless splinters. Dumbledore let them fall to the ground, and continued his advance.

"Bella, make yourself useful…"

Bellatrix made no reply, but leapt into combat with the old man. Harry watched, awestruck, as the man with the eye-patch moved away from the statue he had been fighting, effortlessly dodging the spells she shot at him. Nobody should move that fast, let alone a man who looked like the only thing he should flourish was a bus-pass. And then of course, there was the fact that he appeared to be a Muggle. Which did rather beg the question of how he could be that old and still move like a dancer. The old man grinned wolfishly as he swung his blade into the path of a spell, and Bellatrix shrieked with rage.

Harry was distracted from the duel by an explosion. Crawling from behind the centaur, he watched as bits of the marble floor bounced off Dumbledore's shield. The Headmaster's smile was still firmly fixed in place. He looked as if he was actually enjoying himself. Another marble fragment caught a Killing Curse as Harry watched, and Dumbledore shook his head.

"This really is a waste of all that talent and power Tom. The Killing Curse and a few explosions. Really, I'm disappointed."

Harry was intrigued; in their previous encounters, Voldemort had been smug, boastful – now he was clearly agitated, not responding to Dumbledore's comments. Instead, he whirled his wand around him, and yanked two of the pillars at the entrance towards him. Dumbledore slashed his wand in a line, and the pillars crumbled. Voldemort growled in frustrated rage, and flicked his wand at Dumbledore again. A coil of flame sprouted from the tip of his wand, growing and moulding into a snake, which reared above Dumbledore. It snapped down at him, fiery jaws wide, and engulfed him.

"No!" Harry cried out. It was impossible, Dumbledore couldn't…

He wasn't. The flames dissipated, showing Dumbledore standing there unhurt. He was still smiling. And then he whirled his wand, and the water from the fountain leapt at Voldemort, drowning him in a wall of water. Keeping his eyes on the Dark Lord, Dumbledore flicked his wand at the statue of the house-elf, which the one-eyed man was fending off between stabbing at Bellatrix. It instantly ceased its assault, and ran towards one of the fireplaces, disappearing in a flash of green flame.

It was followed by the crack of Disapparation. Voldemort had gone.

Harry stood up, ready to head to Dumbledore, but his Headmaster held up a hand in warning. And then something split Harry's head apart, sending him crashing to the floor in agony. Images flashed through his mind, too quick to decipher, and he could hear Voldemort's cold laughter.

"_You have always claimed death holds no fear Dumbledore; prove it. Kill the boy, destroy me… If you can._"

Harry screamed inside his mind, and Voldemort laughed louder and longer. But the images slowed, and Harry watched as a memory of Christmas slid past him. Sirius was dancing down the stairs, singing carols at the top of his voice, and there was a sudden stab of anguish through Harry's heart.

_Do it, _he thought to himself. _Do it, and then…_

Everything stopped. The images disappeared completely, and Voldemort stopped laughing.

The pressure behind his eyes disappeared abruptly, and he raised his head to see Voldemort Apparate into the Ministry again, right next to Bellatrix. He grabbed her shoulder, and they both disappeared.

"Merlin!"

Harry and Dumbledore both turned to find that Cornelius Fudge was standing there, white faced and still in his pyjamas. He was shaking.

"He's back!"

* * *

Sirius Black gazed round. The chamber had been pretty much destroyed. The stone benches were scattered around the room, and many had been broken. The floor was scattered with pockmarks and craters, and one of the walls had a hole in it. The central archway had been smashed to splinters. He heard footsteps approaching and turned, coming face to face with a figure in a black cloak. Sirius raised his wand to defend himself but froze when he realised that he could see through his arm.

"Oh," he said, looking down at the bloody smear that was once his body. "So, I'm definitely dead?" he said.

DEFINITELY, said the cloaked figure, raising his scythe.


	20. To hell with destiny

_Authors' note: We have used some direct quotes from 'Order of the Phoenix' in this chapter. If you recognise it, it's probably the work of J.K. Rowling. If you don't, it's probably ours._

Chapter 20: To hell with destiny

Witches and wizards were Apparating into the Atrium all around Harry. Some looked angry; others scared. All had their wands drawn.

"He… he's _back,_" squeaked Fudge. Dumbledore turned on him with a terrible stare.

"Yes, Cornelius, he _is _back," he said, advancing slowly towards Fudge. He did not raise his voice but Harry could feel the anger radiating from Dumbledore. This was not fiery rage; he had gone beyond that. Dumbledore was possessed by a cool, calm fury. Harry, who had faced a Basilisk, Dementors and Death himself, did not think that he had ever seen anything more terrifying.

"But… but… but he's _back_," Fudge burbled.

"Yes, Cornelius, as I have been trying to convince you for the _past year_," said Dumbledore, "The Dark Lord Voldemort has returned to continue his war against our community."

"But… but…" Fudge was glancing round as if searching for an escape route, "Wh-what do I do now_?_"

"You can start by sending your Aurors down to the Department of Mysteries," said Dumbledore, "There you will find a number of people, Death Eaters, whom I and my associates apprehended in the act of robbing this facility. All, I might add, named by Harry Potter last summer as active supporters of the Dark Lord. I trust that this will be all that is necessary to vindicate Harry's story?"

"O-of course. Most regrettable…"

"Secondly you will order the suspension of all activities relating to the Department of Mysteries, pending an official investigation by the Wizengamot."

"Investigation?" said Fudge, suddenly alert, "Into what?"

"Into extra-dimensional exploration," said Dumbledore coldly, "Which is both illegal and highly dangerous, as was aptly demonstrated tonight."

"Demonstrated? What are you talking about, man?"

"Something broke through, Cornelius," said Dumbledore, withering Fudge's pomposity with a look, "A creature from another reality. The Unspeakables' arrogance has placed this entire city in danger!"

There were cries of alarm from the assembled witches and wizards but Dumbledore silenced them with a gesture.

"The creature has been destroyed!" he announced. He turned back to Fudge, who appeared to be on the verge of fainting, "You must now try and salvage what you can from this debacle. Your cowardice and your paranoia have already cost many lives. Many more will be lost before this war is over."

"W-war?" It was as if Fudge did not know where he was anymore.

"I'll take it from here, Albus." A tall, bespectacled wizard with a mane of tawny hair stepped forward, a team of Aurors close behind.

"Thank you, Rufus," said Dumbledore. He turned his back on Fudge and crossed over to where Harry and the one-eyed man waited by the fountain. Bending down, he picked up the smouldering head of the golden wizard statue and passed his wand over it in a complex pattern.

"Harry? Sir?" he said, holding the head towards them.

"What's it do?" asked the one-eyed man, glaring suspiciously at the head.

"It will take us somewhere a little more private, where we can talk," said Dumbledore.

"About this Dark Lord?" said the man.

"About many things," said Dumbledore.

The one-eyed man shrugged and held out his hand.

"Harry?" said Dumbledore. Harry stretched out his hand and touched the head. The Atrium span round him and he had the sensation of being dragged into the air. The spinning grew faster and faster until he landed heavily on the floor of Dumbledore's office.

"One moment, if you please," said Dumbledore, turning to address the portraits hanging above his desk.

"Who would be so good as to locate Professors McGonagall, Snape and Weatherwax? And the Archchancellor Ridcully? Please tell them that I require their presence in my office, immediately."

The various past headmasters and headmistresses nodded and disappeared out of the side of their frames.

"Bet they're worth a bob or two," said the one-eyed man.

"Certainly," said Dumbledore mildly, opening a cabinet and producing a china tea set, "Tea? Or perhaps you prefer coffee?"

"Tea?" Harry murmured. Dumbledore's mundane offer seemed to jar horribly with the events of the past hour.

"Tea?" he cried, "How can you…? How can you just _stand_ there? How can you be so calm after – after – _everything?_"

"Harry, you have every right to be angry with me. If…"

"Angry! Of course I'm angry! Sirius is dead! He's dead! That _thing _killed him. I saw it!"

Harry smashed the tea tray out of Dumbledore's hands. Dumbledore remained motionless; silent in the face of Harry's tirade.

"He died! He shouldn't even have been there! If I hadn't gone there… If I hadn't fallen for Voldemort's trick… Aaagh!"

Harry lashed out again, knocking rows of Dumbledore's silvery instruments to the floor.

"Harry, Sirius's death was not your fault. It was mine," said Dumbledore, "If I had trusted you, as I should have done from the beginning, you would never have ventured within a hundred miles of the Department of Mysteries. If you will let me explain…"

"I don't care!" yelled Harry, "Do you understand? I don't care anymore! I don't care about you, or the bloody Ministry or anything!"

"You do care, Harry. Your anger is proof that you care very deeply indeed."

"Let me out! Let me go! I don't want… I don't want it anymore!"

"No," said Dumbledore coolly. The one-eyed man was leaning against the wall, watching Harry with interest.

"Let me _go!" _screamed Harry, overturning a table.

"You may continue to destroy my possessions. I dare say I have too many. But I will not let you leave until you have at least heard what I have to say. I hope it will help you to understand why Voldemort lured you to the Ministry tonight and why Sirius died."

Harry stood in the middle of the office, blood thundering in his ears. He could feel hot tears on his cheeks. His throat was too sore to shout anymore. What else could he do, faced with Dumbledore's unshakable calm?

"Alright," he said, sinking down into the chair. Dumbledore took the seat opposite, facing Harry across the desk.

"Tonight, Harry, I am going to tell you everything: why Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a baby; why you survived that attack and why, tonight, Voldemort lured you to the Department of Mysteries."

"It's… it's the prophecy, isn't it?" Harry said, his voice coming out as little more than a croak, "The one Malfoy wanted me to hand over?"

"Very astute, Harry," said Dumbledore, with a small smile, "Yes. Sixteen years ago, shortly before you were born, a prophecy was spoken concerning you and Voldemort. It was spoken to me, in an upper room of the Hog's Head pub."

"Who by?"

"Sybil Trelawney."

Harry opened his mouth to speak but Dumbledore cut across him.

"I am aware that Professor Trelawney's usual methods of divination are not… of the highest quality but she does have the gift of prophecy. You saw that yourself, two years ago, when she correctly prophesied Peter Pettigrew's return to Voldemort. This was another such prophecy. Observe."

Dumbledore held out his hand. A cabinet, untouched during Harry's rampage, opened and Dumbledore's Pensieve floated out. It came to rest on the desk between Harry and Dumbledore. Dumbledore raised his wand, withdrew a silvery thread of memory from his temple and deposited it in the shallow stone dish. He whisked the shimmering mist with the tip of his wand and a tiny, ghostly figure of Professor Trelawney rose up. Her voice was tinny but very clear. She was speaking in the same harsh, guttural tones that Harry had heard her use two years ago:

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."_

The ghostly image of Professor Trelawney sank back into the Pensieve. Silence hung over the office, broken only by Fawke's gentle cawing and the one-eyed man sucking a boiled sweet.

Harry realised that Dumbledore was waiting for him to speak:

"S-so… that's me, is it? The one with the power to… to kill Voldemort?"

"Yes, Harry, I believe it is. And so does he."

"But how? It doesn't make any sense…"

"Because you are only thinking of the first part of the prophecy," said Dumbledore, "Coincidentally, that is the only part of the prophecy that Voldemort knows. His spy, who overheard Professor Trelawney and carried the news to him, only heard the first half of the prophecy: that a person destined to overthrow the Dark Lord would be born at the end of July.

"Voldemort quickly realised that they would be a child of the Order of the Phoenix: 'those who have thrice defied him'. There were two such children born that year: Neville Longbottom, and you. That was why Voldemort tried to kill you, Harry. It is my belief that he intended to find Neville after he had killed you. Of course, he never had the opportunity."

"But then how do you know that Trelawney wasn't talking about Neville?" asked Harry.

"Because of the second half of the prophecy; the half that Voldemort's spy did not hear and the half that, despite his efforts tonight, he still does not know. Professor Trelawney said that the Dark Lord 'will mark him as his equal'," Dumbledore pointed to Harry's scar, "By choosing to attack you that night Harry, Voldemort inadvertently fulfilled the prophecy. Your scar proves it: you are the one of whom the Professor spoke. You are the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord Voldemort."

"Well, I've heard enough," announced the old-man, "I've been in more prophecies than you've had hot meals and, if there's one thing I've learned, it's never get in the way of the chosen hero. A lot of people have learned that by getting in _my _way. So, if you don't mind, I'll be getting back to my mates and we'll leave sonny-Jim here to deal with this particular Dark Lord."

"Please, stay," said Dumbledore, standing up, "You were most helpful tonight: my friends, not to mention the entire city of London, owe you their lives. We are at war. We would welcome every ally we can find."

"War?" said the one-eyed man, "A big 'un?"

"The biggest," said Dumbledore. Harry could see a familiar twinkle in the headmaster's eye.

"Any monsters?"

"Thousands."

"Treasure?"

"Possibly."

"Scantily clad women to be rescued?"

"You never know your luck."

"Hmm…" said the old-man, sucking on his false teeth, "I suppose the lad here is going to need some guidance, being a first time hero an' all…

"I am sure that he would benefit from your experience," said Dumbledore, smiling openly now.

"I think I might be able to persuade the lads," said the old-man, returning the smile.

"What is your name?"

"Ghengiz Cohen. Cohen for short."

"I am Albus Dumbledore. This is Harry Potter."

"Wotcha," said Cohen, holding out his hand. Harry shook it gingerly; it was like shaking a tree branch.

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter," said Dumbledore, taking his seat behind the desk. The door opened and Snape, McGonagall, Granny Weatherwax and Ridcully all filed in.

"Albus, what's happened?" asked McGonagall, glancing at Harry with concern.

"I will explain everything in due course, Minerva," said Dumbledore, "All you need to know at present is that the Dark Lord has made his bid for the prophecy, and failed. This is thanks in no small part to Harry and our new ally, Cohen." Dumbledore gestured to the elderly warrior.

"A barbarian hero?" sniffed Granny, glaring at Cohen like he was something she had scraped off the sole of her boot.

"Cohen? Ain't you the fellow who tried to blow up Cori Celesti two years back?" said Ridcully.

"Yep," said Cohen, grinning.

"Ye gods, man! You must have balls like coconuts," said Ridcully.

"I see that you are already acquainted," said Dumbledore dryly, "Allow me to introduce Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts and Severus Snape, Professor…"

Snape. The name cut into Harry's consciousness, until now fogged by the night's events and revelations. He leapt to his feet, hand reaching for his wand.

"You bastard! _You knew!" _he snarled, turning on Snape. McGonagall stepped between them.

"Potter! What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.

"Explain yourself, Harry," said Dumbledore sternly.

"He knew!" said Harry, his hand not straying from his wand, "I told him about… about what I saw; about Sirius. I told him, in Umbridge's office, and he did _nothing_."

"Is this true, Severus?" Dumbledore asked.

"It is," said Snape stiffly, eyes riveted on Harry.

"You mean he didn't tell you, Albus?" asked McGonagall. She sounded shocked.

"No," said Dumbledore softly,

"I didn't dare contact you," said Snape, "The Ministry was watching every fireplace!"

"It was Hagrid who told me," said Dumbledore, continuing as if Snape had not spoken, "He saw Umbridge leading Harry and his friend Miss Granger into the Forest. As soon as I received the message I contacted Grimmauld Place. I sent every member of our Order I could find on to the Ministry. I could sense that the two events were connected; that the Dark Lord was about to make his move. Hagrid and I searched the Forest, hoping to find Harry before he left but we were too late. I apparated to the Ministry myself as soon as I could."

"I had no way of contacting you," said Snape vehemently, "Umbridge's minions were watching me!"

"Really, Severus? I would have thought you were more than a match for a group of teenagers. Perhaps you did not want me to know that the Dark Lord was luring Harry to the Ministry?" said Dumbledore, his voice now dangerously soft.

"How dare you!" snarled Snape, "After everything I have done for you."

"I am sorry, Severus," said Dumbledore, still menacingly quiet, "It may be that you are telling the truth. But we cannot afford to be second guessing our allies, not at this stage. I am not a vindictive man. You have one hour to collect your belongings and get out of this castle. If you are still here after that hour has elapsed, I will send for the Aurors."

"I'll hand him over to them myself!" shouted Harry, trying to force his way past McGonagall.

Snape stood for a moment, sneering at Dumbledore, then turned and swept out of the office, his black robe rolling behind him like a thundercloud.

"Albus…?" said McGonagall.

"To business," said Dumbledore. He appeared calm and collected, as if Snape had never even entered the room. "Fudge has, at last, accepted that the Dark Lord has returned. The Ministry will soon be placed on a war-footing: the Second War has begun in earnest. Our immediate priority should be to co-ordinate with the Ministry in prosecuting the captured Death Eaters. Long term, however, I believe we must begin to prepare Harry for his battle with Voldemort…"

"No." All eyes in the room turned to Harry. "No," Harry repeated, "No, I won't."

"Harry?" said Dumbledore, frowning.

"I won't," said Harry, his voice rising as his confidence grew, "I won't kill Voldemort; not because some prophecy says I should." Thoughts and feelings that had been mounting inside him ever since he had heard Trelawney's prophecy now came flowing out of him like a rushing stream, "Voldemort is a murderer. I'm not. He killed my parents; he killed Cedric; he as good as killed Sirius. If I kill him, how does that make me any better? I'll be no different."

"Harry, nobody _enjoys_ killing," said Dumbledore.

"Speak for yourself," said Cohen. Dumbledore shot him an angry look but Cohen just grinned and popped another boiled sweet in his mouth.

"I appreciate your sentiments," Dumbledore said to Harry, "but the prophecy clearly says…"

"Do you think I give a _damn _about that bloody prophecy?" said Harry, "I don't believe a word of it! You say my scar proves that Professor Trelawney was talking about me? All it proves is that Voldemort tried to kill me, because he believed in the prophecy. He _chose _to try and murder me. It doesn't mean I have to _choose_ to try and murder him."

"Harry, as hard this may be to accept, it is your destiny…"

"I'm sorry Professor, but _to hell with destiny_," said Harry, "Killing is Voldemort's way, not mine."

A shocked silence had descended on the office. Dumbledore sat back in his chair and looked at Harry over steepled fingers.

"Very noble of you, Harry," he said.

"Bloody minded is what I call it," said Granny. Harry was sure he could detect a faint note of pride in her voice.

"That too," said Dumbledore, smiling, "But regardless of whether you believe in the prophecy or not, Voldemort certainly does. He believes that you are a threat to him and his plans, and he will use every means in his power to kill you. You must be prepared to face him and his servants."

"Oh I'll fight," said Harry grimly, "I'm not stupid: I know he'll come for me. But I won't kill him. I'm better than that; better than him.

"Maybe I am destined to kill him, who knows? But as long as I have breath in my body I am going to fight it. I make my own choices, not destiny or fate: me."

"Atta'boy!" said Cohen, slapping Harry on the shoulder, "I'm starting to like you already."

* * *

The thunder of the centaurs' hooves faded into the distance. Dolores Umbridge, trampled, bloody and left for dead in a muddy hollow, curled into a ball and began to rock slowly back and forth. Every few seconds she gave a violent twitch. Every shifting sunbeam seemed to threaten another attack; every shadow concealed a monster. The trees around her appeared to twist as she watched, flowing into unnatural and distorted shapes. Noises, discordant and mocking, floated on the edge of hearing.

So disturbed was Umbridge's vision that it took her a long time to realise that the three forms floating before her were not some terror-induced hallucination. They looked like little empty grey cloaks.

"Wh-wh-who are you?" demanded Umbridge. The reply was not spoken: the words simply formed in her mind.

We are Auditors.

"Au-au-auditors? Au-auditors of what?"

Of reality.

"Wh-what do you want?"

We want what you want. We want order.

"O-order?"

Yes. We will have order.

"Y-yes," said Umbridge, nodding slowly.

This world is disordered. We will bring order to it.

"Y-yes. We must have order."

Umbridge thought these things, these Auditors, seemed friendly. They seemed sensible. They seemed real; certainly more real than the twisting, chattering world around her. More words formed in her mind:

You will help us. We will have order.

"Y-yes. We will."

Magic is not orderly. Magic creates disorder. Magic is chaos.

"It is? Yes… Yes, it is." Of course it is, thought Umbridge. How could she have not seen it before? These Auditors really were very sensible.

We will destroy all magic. You will help us. We will have order.

"Yes. We will."

We will have order.

"We will have order."


	21. Boot Camp

**Chapter 21: Boot Camp**

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I realise that this summer will not have been your most enjoyable, but I hope you are coping with your grief. I regret that I am currently unable to come to Privet Drive myself; I am engaged in research that will, I hope, prove most useful in the fight against Lord Voldemort. I do not wish to commit the details to parchment, but rest assured I will enlighten you further when next we meet._

_For now though, I wish to inform you that Genghiz Cohen and his horde will be coming to collect you from the Dursleys' on the 20__th__ July. They have volunteered to start your training as a hero. While I must confess that I had never considered heroing as a career path, you have seen for yourself what formidable opponents they can be. This training will stand you in good stead for the coming struggles. I advise you to make the most of it._

_I shall meet with you on your return to Hogwarts. Until then, I remain,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

Harry was unable to restrain a smile at Dumbledore's full signature. Knowing the headmaster, that was probably exactly what he had intended. But he had to admit, he hadn't been as grief stricken as Dumbledore seemed to assume. Not that he didn't miss Sirius; he did, intensely. But he was acutely aware that Sirius had died in exactly the fashion he would have wished: fighting, and protecting Harry. And he also knew that Sirius would have clipped him round the ear for sitting around moping.

He raised his head from the letter, looking at the Death of Rats, who was perched on the desk, nibbling at a mouldy piece of cheese. Harry wasn't entirely sure of the mechanics of the situation – how did an anthropomorphic manifestation of one specific aspect of Death eat? And why? – but it was strangely fascinating, nonetheless.

"What d'you think, Ratty? This Cohen's from your world, know anything about him?"

The skeletal rat looked up, his deep blue eyes fixed on Harry, and gave a surprisingly eloquent shrug. Harry sighed, and climbed off the bed. He supposed he'd better start packing.

XxXxxxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Harry supposed that he ought to feel bad about not warning the Dursleys'. They had largely ignored him since the end of term, as they usually did these days. The Luggage had seen the end of his endless chores, although Harry still helped out occasionally, just to keep things running along smoothly. Mowing the lawn would never be his preference for relaxation, but there were worse ways to spend the day, and it got him out in the sun. But on the rare occasions that the Dursleys' had paid any attention to him, it had been negative. Harry supposed that they were still scared – or in Vernon's case, furious _and_ scared – about the warning Mr Weasley and Mad-Eye Moody had given them at King's Cross. Harry still winced a little when he remembered; they had meant well, he knew, but it had been an affront to Vernon's dignity, and his uncle didn't like that. Of course, he was too terrified to actually do anything other than address Harry with what he apparently thought was withering sarcasm, but that wasn't really the point.

So Harry did feel somewhat justified in the vindictive spark of glee he felt when someone hammered at the door.

Gloriously, Vernon happened to be coming downstairs when it happened. Even he wasn't lazy enough to try and get Harry to answer the door under those circumstances. Harry had leapt out of his seat in the living room when the visitor knocked, and now he slipped into the hall to watch.

"Hel – who the bloody hell are you?"

"Name's Cohen. This the Dursley residence, yes?"

"What are you doing here? You can't be – you can't be dressed like that! You – you aren't dressed! Why aren't you dressed?" Vernon would probably have been more effective at keeping his bizarre guests kept under wraps if he hadn't been bellowing at the top of his voice.

"Whaddya mean, not dressed? We're covered up, aren't we?" Caleb sounded genuinely confused, much to Harry's amusement. Vernon's mouth was opening and closing like a particularly dumbfounded fish, and Harry finally took pity on the man.

"Uncle Vernon, these are the Silver Horde. They're here to train me up."

Vernon glared at him, apparently glad of the distraction. "You didn't say anything about this, boy!"

Harry shrugged. "It slipped my mind?" He attempted to sound innocent, but he wasn't sure he'd succeeded. Not that Vernon would have believed him anyway. His uncle turned back to the Horde, obviously torn between horror at letting such bizarre people into his house, and fear of what the neighbours would say if they hung around outside. The problem was solved for him, as Cohen pushed his way past, with the rest of the Horde following him. Harry smirked, and slipped upstairs to finish packing.

As he came back downstairs, dragging his trunk behind him, he was just in time to hear Petunia's outraged shriek from the living room: "Of course he's not! How dare you suggest such a thing!"

"What's going on?" Harry enquired.

Petunia had turned white, and was actually trembling with rage, something Harry had never actually seen happen, while Dudley was, for some reason, cowering back in his seat. By contrast, the Horde were at ease around one of the arm chairs, looking over the room with a critical eye. Harry was certain he could hear them discussing, sotto voce, whether there was actually anything worth the effort of stealing in the house.

"These…people, asked Dudley whether he was a wizard!" Aunt Petunia exclaimed, pointing her finger dramatically at Cohen. Harry repressed a snigger, and looked at the Horde questioningly.

"Well, perfectly reasonable question! You're a wizard, he could be as well. And he's definitely fat enough, none of you lot look like proper wizards." Cohen explained.

"Wizards are fat where you come from?"

"Yep. Spend all their time eating, not doing magic. Safer that way."

"Oh, yes. I remember Ridcully saying. So…you're going to train me as a hero, Dumbledore told me?"

"That's right, lad!" Cohen grinned, flashing his teeth. "We'll soon have you ready to get your man, don't you worry…"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Two days later, they were on the Quidditch Pitch at Hogwarts. Harry stared as Cohen laid out a table. It wasn't an extensive selection; just the biggest sword he had ever seen, chipped and battered from years of enthusiastic use, a horned helmet, and…

"Cohen, what's this?"

"It's yer uniform lad! Every hero has to wear one, it's the Lore."

"It's a nappy." Harry reached out and prodded the sole piece of clothing dubiously. "Even better: it's a furry nappy."

"It's a loin-cloth!

"Whatever it is, I'm not wearing it. I'd look ridiculous – and you've seen some of the stuff wizards wear, so you know that's saying something."

"You'll wear it and like it my lad," Cohen warned him menacingly.

"Make me!" Harry told him, indignantly. In a heartbeat, everything went black.

When Harry woke up, he was wearing the loincloth. It failed to do wonderful things for his appearance, and he sighed. "I suppose I asked for that really…"

"Yep. First rule of Hero Bootcamp: do as I say. Understand?"

"I think I can follow that, yeah…" Harry rubbed his head gingerly. He hadn't even seen Cohen move. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Death of Rats snickering to itself. Surprisingly, Cohen and his friends hadn't been able to see it – but they knew about the Luggage. They'd met it before, apparently, which answered the question of the trunk's origins, if not how it had arrived at Privet Drive. Summoning something across a dimensional rift was a bit advanced for accidental magic, from what Harry understood.

He climbed to his feet, shuffling in discomfort. The loincloth itched more than he would have thought possible, and he scratched himself discretely.

"You'll get used to it. Right, grab the sword." Cohen drew his own sword, and began to flourish it. Harry eyed the sword on the table dubiously.

"Really? I can't see it being that much use, to be honest…I mean, I'm a wizard. I fight with magic."

"Yeah? Know how many wizards we've killed, do you?" Cohen leered at him.

"I haven't seen you kill anybody here; they kept apparating away from you," Harry shot back, defiantly.

"Apparating? That's what it's called is it? Well, true, you lot seem to have a couple of neat tricks, but we'll get past them in the end, don't you worry. Besides, what happens if you find yourself fighting another eldritch abomination like that one the other week, hmm? Magic didn't do much good there, did it?"

"S'pose not…" Harry admitted.

"Well then. Grab the sword!"

Shrugging, Harry grabbed the sword…and immediately dropped it to the floor. "Bloody hell that thing's heavy!"

Cohen stared at him blankly. "Are you seriously telling me you can't even lift a sword?"

"It's not like there's a gym at Hogwarts, you know. The closest I get to exercise is walking round the castle all day."

"Ye Gods…right, we'll have to take a step back then, won't we? Get down and give me twenty."

Harry frowned, confused. "Twenty what?"

"Press ups, you idiot! Now!" Cohen roared, and Harry dropped to the ground in a flash.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Days passed. Harry was slowly becoming convinced that there was some spell over Hogwarts keeping him alive. People couldn't survive this, he was sure of it. He didn't know what he'd do without Dobby bringing his food to the dorm; there was no way he could face the journey down to the kitchen and back. Cohen insisted on him being up at the crack of dawn, and his day was then spent in a variety of different exercises, repeated until his muscles burnt, and his arms felt like they were going to fall off. Then, Cohen drilled him in swordplay.

Harry had never appreciated the Sword of Gryffindor so much. He didn't know whether it was magic, or whether it was some property about the way it had been forged, but it had been light as a feather, easy even for a complete amateur to wield. The sword Cohen had given him…that was a different matter. He could at least lift it above his head now, Cohen's strenuous regime bulking him up to a point where he actually fitted some of the shirts he had inherited from Dudley. The ability to fight with it still eluded him though; in part, this was because he still felt that it was pointless him even trying, that his time would be better spent learning better magic. Cohen had eventually agreed that this was perhaps not a bad idea, under the circumstances – although instead of cutting out the swordsmanship, he had simply reduced Harry's leisure time.

Then, of course, there were lessons with the other members of the Horde…

"Now, Harry…yer going to be a hero. That's a good career, lots of prospects. But you need a name." Caleb peered at him through misty eyes. "Any suggestions? Maybe a nickname, that's always a good start. You don't wanna start out too ambitious, mind, people make fun of you."

"I…I really have no idea. People already call me The Boy Who Lived, if that's any good?"

"Hmm…potential, I suppose, but you don't really want people thinking you're a kid. Sends out the wrong message, y'see? What about…Aha! Dread Harry! Used to know a Dread Harry, decent bloke for a Dark Lord."

"You want me to name myself after a Dark Lord?" Harry asked, somewhat startled. "I thought I was training to be a hero!"

"You are! Dread's a good one, can be either or. Yeah, Dread Harry. That's how you introduce yourself from now on, ok?"

"I guess…"

He could see it now – meeting up with his friends again, and apologetically explaining that he was now known as Dread Harry. Merlin, the twins would never shut up…

And then there was Truckle, who was a very unusual person, even by wizarding standards.

"Now then. You've got your name, you've got your uniform, you're learning how to use a sword. But there's more to being a hero, you know! There's the pillage – you've got to learn to spot the best loot, you can't just grab it all and run. The jewellery's a good place to start; nice and light, can fetch you a nice bit of coin. Once you've grabbed that, you move up a bit – ornaments, fancy weapons, that sort of thing, they've always got more than you can carry lying about. Investing in a horse is a good tip, too. Saves wear and tear on sandals, you can carry more loot, and makes a decent meal if you're out in the sandy wastes and you've only got dwarf bread in your pack."

"Should I be writing this down?" Harry asked. Truckle clipped him round the ear.

"Don't be cheeky. And yes, you should. Now: battle cries. Don't underestimate the value of a good battle cry. Best to have a personal one, but the classics'll do you for now; 'We're gonna cut yer tonker off!' that sort of thing. Ok?"

"Tonker?"

"Yeah, you know – the…unmentionables." Truckle winked in a manner that instantly made Harry feel very awkward. "And speaking of the unmentionables…the final part of being a hero. Ravishing."

"Ravishing?" Harry didn't like where this was going.

"Yep. Always a maiden – or if you're lucky, two – lying around a Dark Lord's fortress, you'll see. Always very grateful to be saved, if you know what I mean." This time, the wink was followed by a leer.

"I'm…not entirely sure I do, to be honest," Harry confessed.

"You don't?"

"Not really, no."

"How old are you lad?" Truckle asked, in tones of astonishment.

"Sixteen. Why?"

"Sixteen years old, and you don't know what I'm talking about?"

"I think I get ravishing…"

"Hold on a moment…" Truckle wandered off, ambling over to Cohen. He leant down, and started whispering in his friend's ear. Cohen looked over at Harry, apparently just as shocked as Truckle was.

"I think ravishing's something he's going to have to pick up for himself, Truckle. Needs to develop a personal style anyway."

"I suppose, but sixteen and not thinking about ravishing? Not natural, it isn't…"

"I know, I know, but they do things differently here. Stands to reason that they don't do them better."

Harry shrugged, and resolved to ask Hermione about it. She knew the answer to most things, after all.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

After a month, Harry had finally managed to parry one of Cohen's thrusts without the sword vibrating out of his hand. He was strangely proud, despite his misgivings about using a sword. Cohen beamed brightly at him.

"Well done lad! Still plenty of work to do, but you're getting there! Time for you to learn the final part of heroing, I reckon."

"There's more?"

"You need to learn how to quaff."

The next morning, Albus Dumbledore was roused from bed by his brother. He didn't even try to explain the damage to the Hogshead, simply informing Albus that if any of the Horde tried to get into the Hogs Head again, he would unleash his goat on them.


	22. The star and the slug

Chapter 22: The star and the slug 

Severus Snape stirred the coals in the grate and considered suicide. It was easily done. His captors might have confiscated his wand but any of the curtains or tapestries in his suite of rooms could be twisted into a strong noose. Stupid Purebloods, he thought: they are so dependent on magic that they think taking a wizard's wand makes him helpless as an infant.

Must it come to suicide? If the Dark Lord had wanted him dead, he would have come for Snape himself. No, his capture had been swift, efficient and quiet. The Death Eaters had taken him in the early hours, at his house in Spinner's End. Snape had expected it of course, but not so soon after his expulsion from Hogwarts. He had offered no resistance; the Death Eaters had outnumbered him four to one, and they were led by Bellatrix LeStrange, who was worth the other three alone.

That had been almost three months ago, as far as Snape could tell. All that time he had been confined to this suite of rooms. He had deduced from the crest on the tapestries that he was in Malfoy Manor but he had seen nobody throughout his time there, not even a house elf. All his meals appeared on the table at regular intervals, and the bathroom resupplied itself with fresh towels and soap every morning. The Dark Lord knew that Snape was a powerful Legilimens and probably feared to send a servant to him, lest Snape should read his intentions in the servant's mind. So Snape was left to tend the fire and brood.

No, the Dark Lord did not wish to merely kill him. Snape had seen Voldemort torture men and women to madness, as an example to others, until they begged for an end. Voldemort usually fed these to Nagini. Suicide would be preferable to such a death but Snape was not sure that Voldemort wished to kill him at all. He had done him valuable service in the past and the Dark Lord would need every faithful servant he could command in the months to come. Snape had learned much about the Dark Lord's preparations over the past year; the Potter prophecy had not been Voldemort's only concern. The war to come would be terrible; more terrible than his first bid for power. Voldemort might have lost a valuable spy in the Order but Snape had other talents that he could put to use. Perhaps thoughts of suicide were premature.

The door opened. Snape stood up warily. Two Death Eaters swept in, hooded and anonymous behind their skull-white masks. There was no ceremony to what followed: one Death Eater pinned Snape's arms while the other pulled a thick black bag over his head. He was blind and deaf beneath the bag but he could feel the Death Eaters taking his arms and pushing him towards the door. Snape tried to remember the many turns that they took but he was soon lost, marching blindly through corridors and down several flights of stairs.

He felt the Death Eaters release his arms but it took him a moment to realise that the bag had been removed from his head. He looked around but he could not even see his hand stretched out in front of him. Very gradually, a green light began to illuminate him from above. Snape looked up and knew exactly where he was. The roof was decorated with dozens of pentangles, five-pointed stars, each glowing with an eerie green light. He was in the Star Chamber: the court of the Death Eaters.

As the light from the pentangles grew Snape could make out the giant pentangle laid into the floor beneath him. He was standing at the bottom of a shallow, five-sided hollow. Standing around the edge of the hollow were dozens of masked Death Eaters. Snape had stood among them many times to watch justice be done on his fellows. Seated at the head of the room, on a black chair decorated with skeletal snakes, was the court's sole judge: Lord Voldemort. He was bareheaded and unmasked, looking down at Snape with an inscrutable expression. Snape raised his head and forced himself to meet the gaze of those terrible scarlet eyes.

"Severus Snape," said Voldemort, "you have been brought before this court to answer for your failure."

There was absolute silence in the Chamber, allowing Voldemort's voice to carry effortlessly to every corner. He continued:

"You were ordered to infiltrate the Order of the Phoenix and bring us such information as would be useful to our cause. You have failed. Albus Dumbledore has expelled you from the Order and from his school. Do you have anything to say?"

This was where the real business of the Star Chamber began. It was not a court of justice; it was a forum for ritual humiliation. Voldemort would question the defendant, for hours if necessary, until they broke down and admitted their guilt. Snape had seen proud Purebloods on their knees, weeping at the humiliation of being so demeaned before their peers.

"My lord, if I have failed as an informer, it was only through my desire to carry out your orders," said Snape, "You ordered that Potter should be allowed to reach the Department of Mysteries. In doing so, I could not help but arouse Dumbledore's suspicions. If the plan to retrieve the prophecy failed it was through no fault of mine."

"We have dealt with those responsible for that debacle," said Voldemort sharply, "The boy Draco will atone for his father's failure."

Snape wondered what Voldemort could mean but he dismissed the thought quickly. He could feel Voldemort probing at his mind with Legilimency. It was vital that he maintained his mental defences.

"We are concerned with _your_ failure, Severus," Voldemort continued, "You have lost Dumbledore's trust; the only tie still binding you to the Order of the Phoenix. Your blunder has cost us vital intelligence. Do you deny it?"

"I do not deny that I have lost an opportunity to gather information, but if I did it was through circumstances and bad luck, not lack of ability or loyalty."

"I wonder…" said Voldemort, stroking his chin with one skeletal finger.

"My lord?"

"About your loyalty, Severus. You say that you _allowed_ Potter to reach the Ministry. But who is to say that you did not _allow_ the Order to follow him?"

"I sent no messages, my lord. I had no opportunity. Ask the Malfoy boy…"

Voldemort raised a hand. Snape fell silent.

"There is one way you can prove your loyalty beyond all doubt, Severus."

Snape felt a sudden, stabbing chill in his gut.

"Name it, my lord," he said.

"Make the Unbreakable Vow."

It took all of Snape's self-control, all his skill in duplicity, to maintain his composure at this announcement. It was clear now that his life was hanging by the slenderest of threads. He had all but lost the Dark Lord's trust. He had to make the Vow, willingly or not. Refusal meant death.

"If that is what my lord commands," said Snape, falling to one knee. Voldemort stood up and walked slowly towards Snape, his robes hissing on the smooth stone floor.

"Rise, Severus," he ordered. Snape stood up. He could feel the weight of Voldemort's Legilimency pressing against his mental defences. Close to now he could see how the effort was bringing out beads of perspiration on Voldemort's pale forehead. Snape felt dizzy. He feared that he would fall, even pass out.

Voldemort took a step back. The pressure on Snape lifted.

"Bellatrix will be our Binder," Voldemort announced. A slender figure stepped down from among the Death Eaters, her face hidden behind the white mask.

"Your hand, Severus," said Voldemort. Snape took the long, white hand held out before him. It looked more like a large pale spider than anything belonging to a man. It felt very cold, and strangely dry. Bellatrix drew her wand and held it over their clasped hands.

"Will you, Severus, swear to obey me in whatever I may command?"

"I swear it."

A thin rope of fire extended from the tip of Bellatrix's wand and coiled itself around the two linked hands.

"And will you swear to speak no word of my plans or purposes, or those of my faithful servants, to any who would oppose us?"

"I swear it."

A second rope twisted around their hands.

"And will you swear never to do any hurt to me, or my faithful servants, by blade, or curse, or potion?"

"I swear it."

A third rope uncoiled from Bellatrix's wand. Snape and Voldemort's hands were now bound by a knot of fire. For a moment it blazed so bright that it was painful to look upon, then it faded into nothingness.

Voldemort did not release Snape's hand. He stepped very close, so that only Snape could hear him:

"I have shown you mercy, Severus. Do not look for it a second time. Betray me, and I shall make an example of you that will never be forgotten. Your death will become a byword for cruelty and pain."

"I understand, my lord," said Snape, falling to his knees. Voldemort waited, allowing the moment to draw out:

"Rise, my servant," he said, "We have much to do."

* * *

"Look Harry, Luna's here. Harry! It's Luna. She's waving to us."

"Ron, I keep telling you: I can barely _move_!"

Harry winced as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position on the bench. Every muscle; every bone; every hair on his body felt stiff and sore. It had taken him twenty minutes just to stagger down from Gryffindor Tower to the Great Hall for the start of term feast. At that moment turning his head to look at the door was a major effort.

"Bloody barbarian heroes…" he grunted as he tried to stretch some of the stiffness out of his arms.

"I know it hurts, but their training's clearly working," said Ginny, "You're looking really fit."

Harry stared at her. He could feel himself beginning to blush.

"I meant… I didn't… Good for your Quidditch…" Ginny mumbled, going nearly as red as her hair.

""Oh, hello Neville!" she said, turning so suddenly that her hair whipped Ron across the face.

"Look who's here," said Hermione softly.

"Hermione, for the last time…"

"It's Malfoy."

Harry turned far too quickly and sent a sharp pain shooting down his neck.

"Sneaky bugger," growled Ron. You could never have described Draco as 'tanned' but that evening he looked almost bloodless. He had clearly not slept properly for a while. He swaggered over to the Slytherin table and sat down but there was something uneasy in his manner, as if he was not entirely comfortable to be back at school. True, he had good reason to be uneasy: three months ago his father had been publically unmasked as a Death Eater and imprisoned, but Harry suspected that there was more to it than that.

Harry intended to keep a close eye on Draco that year. His suspicions had first been aroused two weeks ago, when he had escaped the Horde to spend a day shopping in Diagon Alley with Ron and Hermione. It had not been a very pleasant day: Diagon Alley during wartime was not a happy place. There were fewer shoppers than in previous years and those Harry did see were hurrying from door to door, eyes downcast. Windows and doors crackled dangerously with protective charms. Several shops had been abandoned, their windows boarded up and the proprietors fled. It made Harry long for those summer afternoons sitting outside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, writing essays and exchanging pleasantries with passersby.

Harry and his friends had just come out of Flourish and Blott's when they had spotted Draco Malfoy heading down towards Knockturn Alley. This was not overly suspicious in itself but Draco was wearing a hooded cloak on a warm day and clearly did not wish to be noticed. Hiding under the invisibility cloak, which Harry now carried with him everywhere for safety, Harry, Ron and Hermione had stalked him to the door of Borgin and Burkes. Although unable to hear what was being said, through the dusty windows Harry and his friends had seen Draco talking with Mr. Borgin. Draco had been gesturing to a large, black cabinet: the same cabinet that Harry had been forced to hide in when he accidentally landed in the shop four years ago. Borgin had appeared unusually servile, as if he were somehow afraid of Draco. Draco had left without paying but, as he paused in the doorway, Harry had heard him tell Borgin that someone:

"… will be back, to make sure you're giving it your _full _attention."

Harry, Ron and Hermione had spent the rest of the afternoon speculating about what Draco was doing in Borgin and Burkes and why, but to no avail. All they could conclude was that Draco was up to something secret and probably involving the Dark Arts, and that it would be a good idea to keep a close watch on him at Hogwarts.

Amateur espionage would have to wait for the time being however, as the Sorting was over and the feast had appeared. Harry tucked in with an enthusiasm that not even Ron could match: hero training had raised a powerful appetite in him. When at last everyone had eaten their fill (which took somewhat longer these days with the Unseen University faculty at the top table), Professor Dumbledore rose to address the students:

"A most heartfelt welcome to you all, students old and new! As always, it is my painful duty to spoil the end of such a splendid feast with a few notices.

"Mr Flich, our caretaker, has a new and updated list of items which are banned from the castle corridors. Anyone who wishes to consult it will find it in his office on the ground floor.

"The Forbidden Forest remains out of bounds to every student who wishes to leave this school with all four limbs still attached.

"On a more pleasant note, I am pleased to announce the addition of two new professors to the teaching staff at Hogwarts. Professor Marius Marlinspike, who will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts."

A short, elderly wizard with a shiny bald head and a scowling, unfriendly expression rose, bowed to Dumbledore and sat down again.

"And we offer a most hearty 'welcome back' to Professor Horace Slughorn, who will once again be taking up the post of Potions teacher."

Slughorn would not have looked out of place among the UU faculty: he was a bulbous old man with a drooping, walrus-like moustache. He staggered to his feet and waved enthusiastically to the students, before bowing to Dumbledore and sinking back into his chair.

This announcement raised considerable comment among the students, who all asked one another what had happened to Snape. Harry, and through him his friends, were among the very few people in the hall who knew of the circumstances in which Snape had been fired. Dumbledore quietened the assembly with a gesture but he made no reference to Snape's absence:

"Now, I know we are all yearning for our soft, warm beds but I must ask you to listen most carefully to what I am about to say. As I am sure you will all be aware, the Dark Lord Voldemort has returned to power and is once again waging a campaign of terror against our community."

The name Voldemort sent a shiver through the hall.

"I cannot emphasise strongly enough how dangerous the current situation is. Voldemort and his Death Eaters are ruthless killers. They would murder you without a second's thought to achieve their ends. Muggle-born, half blood, pure blood: all are at risk. In view of this, the magical protections on this castle have been strengthened to unprecedented levels. The Ministry of Magic have raised a ring of standing stones that will prevent Apparation within three miles of Hogwarts. In addition, a permanent guard of Aurors has been mounted on the grounds. It is important that every student gives these witches and wizards their fullest co-operation. They are here to ensure _your _safety.

"But enchantments and wands can only do so much. Our strongest defences are courage and loyalty. Courage: to make the hard choices, to do what is right instead of what is easy, to put the needs of others before our own, and loyalty: to our friends, to our schoolmates, to our own consciences. The strongest weapon that Voldemort wields is not a curse: it is fear and mistrust. But so long as we retain our courage and our trust in one another, he will never conquer us.

"And that is quite enough serious business for one night: to bed!"

Harry was still struggling to straighten his legs and join the rush for the doors when a loud voice hailed him:

"Harry, m'boy!"

Harry turned and saw Professor Slughorn bustling through the crowd of students towards him.

"Good to see you, m'boy," he said brightly, nearly elbowing Ron in the face in his eagerness to shake Harry's hand.

"Good to… see you too, professor," said Harry, bewildered.

"Knew your mother, Lily; taught her, in fact. Remarkable student, truly remarkable, especially when one considers… Never mind! I'm expecting great things from you, eh? Heard a lot but, then, who hasn't a lot about Harry Potter, what? Ha! Great things, Harry, great things!"

Slughorn swept past, his large stomach acting like a plough through the mass of students in the Entrance Hall.

"Do you know him?" Hermione asked.

"Never spoken to him," Harry shrugged.

Eventually, with much wincing and groaning, Harry was able to stagger to the foot of the main staircase. He was about to start the tortuous climb to Gryffindor Tower when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find himself looking into the sparkling blue eyes of Professor Dumbledore.

"I wondered if I might have a quick word, Harry?" he said.

"Go on. I'll catch up," Harry told Ron and Hermione.

Dumbledore led Harry away from the Entrance Hall and along two corridors until they came to the Court of the Dryad. It was an octagonal courtyard, open to the sky but surrounded a covered walkway. In the middle of the yard there stood a statue of a dryad, whose appearance changed with the seasons. Tonight, with her summer dress starting to decay, she was seated on her plinth, busily sewing a new garment from autumn leaves. She did not look up from her work as Dumbledore and Harry entered the yard.

"How are you enjoying your lessons in heroics?" Dumbledore asked. His tone was conversational but he was staring intently at Harry.

"It's… good exercise," said Harry, trying to be polite.

"Excellent!" said Dumbledore, apparently genuinely pleased, "We wizards are very bad at getting proper exercise: magic gives us far too many reasons to be lazy."

"Professor, you're not... thinking of adding the Horde to the staff here, are you?" Harry asked, voicing a question that had been troubling him for some time.

"No, Harry, I don't think I will," said Dumbledore, with a wink, "You will remain their one and only pupil. I have given them the use of some chambers in the west tower as my guests but, truth be told, they seem to prefer roaming the Forbidden Forest to sleeping indoors.

"Although I am sure that they will teach you many healthy and beneficial things, I think you will agree with me that the Horde's... curriculum is not entirely comprehensive?"

"Not entirely, no."

"That is why I have hired Professor Marlinspike," said Dumbledore, "He's a former Auror with nearly thirty years experience of combating the Dark Arts. He's not quite in Alastor Moody's league but he will make a fine teacher. He has also agreed to give you some personal tuition, focussing on personal defence."

"He's going to teach me how to fight? Properly, I mean, with magic."

"Yes, Harry. The attack on the Department of Mysteries was only Voldemort's first move in what may prove a very long game. For the time being he has confined himself to random acts of terror, intended to intimidate us and undermine the Ministry, but I am certain his next great move is imminent. I know you have little liking for violence but I am afraid that you will soon be forced onto the front line of this war. I want you to be prepared."

"So do I, Professor."

"And what did you think of Professor Slughorn?"

"Professor?" said Harry, confused by this sudden change of topic.

"Professor Slughorn, Harry. Did you like him?"

"He seemed… very friendly, I suppose."

"I am sure he was, towards you at least," Dumbledore smiled wryly, "Horace takes great pride in his social network, especially past students of his. He 'collects' them, as it were: the best, the brightest, the most famous or well-connected. And he will be particularly keen to add _you _to his 'collection'."

"Err… right, sir," said Harry, wondering where on earth the conversation was going.

"I need you to do me a favour, Harry."

"Professor?"

"I want you to become close to Professor Slughorn," said Dumbledore, suddenly very serious, "Be polite; be pleasant; gain his trust. I cannot tell you why yet but I assure you, it may one day be of the greatest importance that Horace Slughorn counts _you _among his favourite students."

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, still utterly baffled.

"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore, smiling again.

"Now, off to bed. You might want to wear that invisibility cloak you are carrying in your bag. It is after hours and it wouldn't do for Filch to catch you out of bed on the first night of the term, would it?"

Dumbledore strode off across the courtyard, leaving behind a thoroughly confused Harry.


	23. Talent Disappeared

**Chapter 23: Talent Disappeared**

Commander Samuel Vimes sighed deeply. He was distinctly annoyed, and while there had been a time when that was his ground state of being, these days he liked to feel that he had mellowed. It was necessary; Young Sam just didn't enjoy 'Where's My Cow?' quite as much if Vimes had had a bad day. This was why he stayed in the field as much as possible; he could deal with the thugs and gangsters – it was the politicians who really pissed him off. Well, them and the constant niggle of not being targeted for assassination. How else was he supposed to get enough exercise? On this occasion though, the target of his frustration hailed from the wizardly contingent of Ankh-Morpork.

Again, this was not something that happened infrequently. Vimes despised magic. Ordinarily then, the fact that ninety-nine percent of the magical population had disappeared without trace would have been a cause for tentative celebration – tentative because there was always the chance that the silly buggers had ripped a hole in reality or, worse, that they might reappear. However, on this occasion Vimes had been tasked with investigating the disappearance. Such cases were tricky enough when you were dealing with ordinary clues; when you were dealing with things that Man Was Not Meant To Know, it became rather more difficult. Especially when the closest thing he had to a witness and specialist advisor had tried to flee the city three times in the last week. The first time, the ratty little man had tried to smuggle himself out by clinging to the underside of a sheep. A nice idea, but Morporkian sheep were vicious buggers, and he had ended up running to Vimes for protective second time, Rincewind had, in desperation, tried to magic himself away. His shocking misunderstanding of the principles involved, and his general ineptitude, had resulted in the wizard's robes leaping three feet to the left, through a window and landing in Throat Dibbler's lap. By the time anyone could get to them, the bastard had already sold them on for more than five times their worth. Rincewind had been heartbroken. The third time, Vimes had not been so amused. Claiming to be "utterly parched", Rincewind had cajoled his guard into taking him for a drink. A quick shout of "Lawn ornament" at an opportune moment had led to thirty seven counts of breach of the peace, severe property damage, and Rincewind dragged back to the Watch House clapped in irons.

"For the last time man, will you sit still?" the Commander barked, irritably. He didn't really know the man sitting in front of him, but he certainly recognised him; Rincewind was a long standing fixture around the city, when nothing too terrible was happening. About the only person who seemed to genuinely like him was Carrot, who claimed to have bonded with him on an insane adventure they had shared a few years ago – although of course, Carrot liked everyone. Vimes had treated the wizard with suspicion ever since he had found out that Rincewind was rather fond of Throat Dibbler's sausage-inna-bun, a fact which immediately marked him down as a Suspicious Character. He might have had more patience, even sympathy for him, had his second escape attempt not brought Vimes face to face with the Patrician at his most sarcastic. Vimes did not appreciate being made to look a fool.

"I'm sorry, alright? But I keep telling you, I can't help you! I wouldn't have the first idea where to start!"

"You're a wizard, aren't you? Even if you can't spell it…you must know someway of tracking them all down?"

The scrawny wizard sank deeper into his chair, eying the office door longingly. "I only ever learnt one spell," he mumbled in tones of embarrassment.

Vimes sighed, and sank his head into his hands. This was the special advisor Vetinari saw fit to gift him with. To be fair to the Patrician, he was hardly spoilt for choice, but surely there were people with even just an academic interest in it all? "Do you perhaps remember anything about the disappearance? Anything might be helpful." He spoke through gritted teeth.

"I told you, they'd found something on the eightieth floor, on the Hub side of the quad. I never saw it – didn't want to –"

"And my officers haven't found anything up there. Assuming we're on the _right_ eightieth floor…" Vimes sighed again. He really did hate wizards. He looked up as the floorboards outside his office squeaked, a rather useful early warning device for any meetings he wanted to avoid. On this occasion, he welcomed the break. Besides, he recognised the familiar clang of Cheery's forged heels, and she knew not to disturb him unless it was urgent. "Come in, Cheery."

The door creaked open, and the diminutive sergeant smiled nervously at him from behind her beard. "Morning sir. Erm…"

"Well? Spit it out!"

"Lord Vetenari wants to see you sir…"

"Ye Gods, it never rains, does it, sergeant?" Vimes stood up, and jabbed his finger at Rincewind. "You stay put. Understand?"

The wizard nodded furiously, and Vimes eyed him dubiously. "Watch him while I'm out will you, Cheery?"

"Absolutely sir. He can help me with some experiments I'm running," the dwarf replied with a beaming grin.

Rincewind gulped, audibly.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Vimes walked through the door to the Patrician's office and solution. The Patrician did not look up from his paperwork for a few moments, leaving Vimes standing to attention in front of his desk. He turned a page as Vimes stared resolutely at the wall behind him. Then he finally looked up.

"Ah, Sir Samuel. Thank you for your time."

"Anytime sir," Vimes said stiffly.

"How goes the operation with Rincewind?"

Vimes felt himself begin to wince, and it was only through years of practice that he managed to keep the expression off his face. "He's helping us with our enquiries, sir."

"He was doing that at the beginning of the week, Vimes." The Patrician steepled his fingers, fixing Vimes with his most penetrating stare. "One might wonder how many enquiries you have to make. Although it is a comfort that you have him under armed guard. Most inspiring, I must say."

Vimes had to marvel, he really did. How could Vetinari have possibly found that out in the time it had taken him to make it to the palace? It seemed impossible – but then, knowing the impossible was Vetinari's speciality. "With all due respect sir, he's of limited use. He didn't see anything, he doesn't know anything – anything at all, in fact. Doesn't know where they went, doesn't know how he might track them down…there's only so much I can do."

A flicker of displeasure passed across Vetinari's face. "Maybe so. Well, I have conducted my own investigations, albeit briefly. You might advise him to research the Rite of Apaeratum, although obviously that is only a suggestion."

"I'll bear it in mind sir, thank you."

"And I suggest you do it quickly. There has been another disappearance, Vimes."

"I haven't heard anything about that sir. Who is it this time? I've had people out pounding the streets; seems like it's been quiet."

"Well, you could hardly have heard about this one, Vimes. He was a…guest of mine. A long standing one."

Vimes nodded slowly. He had to admit, he was a little surprised – the Patrician actually looked a little…uncomfortable.

"Are you familiar with Leonard de Quirm, Vimes?"

Vimes blinked. "Thought he was dead to be honest with you, sir. Must be years since he went missing. Wait…he was -?"

"My guest, yes. It seemed safer than having him running around unsupervised. Quite a brilliant mind, but a little naïve, shall we say?"

Vimes nodded, a nasty thought crossing his mind. "Didn't he invent the gonne, sir?"

"He did indeed, although even he realised that was a bad idea."

"So…we should find him quickly then?"

"That might be best, yes," the Patrician replied with a solemn nod. "Do give my best to Lady Sybill."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Harry ducked into the concealed passage with an exhausted sigh. He had just spent twenty minutes arguing with Truckle about the fact that he was wearing robes again. Harry had tried to explain that a furry loincloth was not considered appropriate attire for the classroom, or any room that had anybody he knew in it, but the barbarian had refused to back down. In the end Harry had abandoned his heroic training and simply walked off. Cohen and his Horde might move like greased lightning in the middle of a fight but Harry didn't need a stick to make his way up a flight of stairs.

At least the argument had taken place in private; Harry shuddered to think what might happen if the Hogwarts gossip mill got hold of the fact that he'd spent a fair portion of the summer in a loincloth. He hadn't even told his friends. It must be said though, aside from Truckle, the first couple of days had gone pretty well. Slughorn was proving to be a more engaging teacher than Snape ever had been, although Harry had to admit that was partly to do with the old potions textbook he had been using. Defence Against the Dark Arts was…interesting. Marlinspike was certainly a formidable figure, and clearly knew his stuff.

In fact – Harry checked his watch, and cursed as only a graduate of Hero Boot Camp could – his argument with Truckle had put him behind schedule. He was due to meet Marlinspike for the first in a series of training sessions. He began to jog through the passage. He would be lucky to get there on time, and he had a feeling that Marlinspike would be a stickler for punctuality.

The door was closed when he got there, and he knocked hard, panting rapidly. It swung open, but there was no-one there.

Even a year previously, he would probably have walked straight into the room, maybe drawing his wand as a precaution. Not for nothing though had he spent most of the summer drilling in heroic techniques. He did indeed draw his wand, and he looked round the doorframe. He couldn't see anyone, although in Hogwarts that didn't necessarily mean anything, as he knew better than most. So in all likelihood, there was someone hiding behind the door. Unless they'd opened the door through magic from elsewhere in the room, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

So he kicked the door flat against the wall, and walked in as he whipped up a shield charm.

A spell burst against the shield, and Harry whirled to aim his wand at his attacker. Marlinspike shimmered into view, apparently removing a Disillusionment Charm from himself. Harry didn't try and curse him, but he didn't lower his shield either. Marlinspike nodded grudgingly.

"Not bad, Potter. Good to see that you're not a completely hopeless case."

"I've met Mad-Eye Moody," Harry replied. "He made quite an impression."

Marlinspike grinned, an expression that did not really suit him. "I remember; we went through training together. Dumbledore tells me you've had some other specialist training though. Useful?"

"Fairly," Harry admitted. "Not much magic, apart from what I looked at in my spare time, but it's broadened my mind a little."

"Hmm." Marlinspike did not look entirely satisfied with this response, but Harry just looked at him calmly. "Well, let's see what you can do, shall we?"

"Sure thing. _Absonitus!_"

Marlinspike's eyes widened in shock as the spell exploded, releasing a sonic boom in front of his face. A bottle on the shelf behind him shattered, and he staggered back, clutching his ears in pain. Harry allowed himself a grin, but Marlinspike recovered swiftly. He flicked his own spell at Harry, and he was thrown off his feet as a deep gonging sound echoed round the room. Harry slammed into the wall, all the air knocked out of him in one gasp.

He looked up as Marlinspike walked toward him, shaking his head to clear the lingering effects of the Thrown Gauntlet spell. Harry suspected Dumbledore would be a little surprised that he knew the it, but Harry had taken a rather relaxed view towards his reading over the summer.

"Nice spell. Not one you learnt in class, I assume?" He stood over Harry, his arms folded and an unreadable look on his face.

"Nope. Like I said, my training's broadened my mind a tad."

"Clearly." Marlinspike suddenly smiled widely. "Nice work. You've definitely got the right idea. I've got to admit, I wasn't expecting you to attack so quickly."

Harry smirked. "That's another thing I learnt – the best way to live for ever."

"Oh?"

"Don't get killed."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

There were times, Death reflected sourly, when the rules of his trade really ticked him off.

Wizards and witches were, of course, entitled to personal service in the event of their death; unlike every other being in the multiverse, Death had to be there when one of them died. Ordinarily this was not too much of an issue. Frequently, especially on the Discworld, the wizard or witch had had a premonition of their death, meaning they had adjusted and come to terms with it before it even happened. It was almost relaxing.

Then there were the times when the wizard or witch died in company.

A few centuries ago, it had been common for the faculty of Unseen University to hold Going Away Parties whenever a member passed away – a not infrequent occurrence in those days, given the aggressive approach to promotion amongst the staff. The assorted wizards would gather together to make sure the ailing wizard's last hours were spent in the style to which he had become accustomed: eating and drinking obscene amounts of food and fine wine. This was all well and good, but the guests always found their party spirit deserting them when the towering, skeletal figure arrived. It was a shame really. Death did enjoy a good cocktail.

It was even worse when he went to St. Mungo's.

As a courtesy, Death made sure that he didn't ride Binky through the foyer. He wasn't entirely sure his appearance would cause a stampede of frantic relatives but it seemed more human not to risk it. Instead he landed on the roof of the building, which would be a precarious affair for those who existed solely in the physical realm. Death was used to the Disc, where wizards surrounded themselves with as much finery as possible. They would never have stood for such a dilapidated building as their hospital (although, in fairness to the Roundworld, they had a much higher standard of hygiene).

The locked door posed no barrier to him and he walked imperiously down the stairs, scythe slung over his shoulder. As he entered the main building a Healer spotted him and dropped the case of potions vials he was carrying with a shocked gasp.

GOOD AFTERNOON, Death greeted him with a quick nod. The Healer just opened and closed his mouth, soundlessly, and Death walked on past. He made his way down to the fifth floor, where the long-term patients were kept. As he walked through the door, he withdrew a twisted hourglass from the cavernous recesses of his robes, examining it carefully. About five minutes left.

He groaned, a sound like the initial rumblings of an avalanche, as he realised that his client was surrounded by his family. These were always the worst ones. He walked up behind them and took a seat. The patient let out a strangled gasp as he saw him and Death winked at him.

DON'T MIND ME. YOU WON'T EVEN NOTICE I'M HERE, I PROMISE. NO RUSH.

For some reason, conversation became rather stilted after that. Eventually though, the elderly wizard breathed his last, and Death swung his scythe in a business like fashion. The relatives looked at him in horror and he shrugged, an impressive gesture from him.

IT'S NOTHING PERSONAL. BE SEEING YOU.

He turned to leave, and frowned. There was something wrong with one of the beds. He stalked over and examined it carefully. There was nobody in it, which wasn't too bizarre in itself, even in the long-term ward. But there was something, just on the edge of perception. He thrust his scythe out, stopping a Healer in her tracks.

EXCUSE ME. WHO WAS IN THIS BED LAST?

The Healer went white, but looked around the ward. "Oh, that… that would have been Gilderoy Lockhart. He was checked out a couple of days ago."

WHO BY? Death enquired.

"I – I'll just check." The Healer scurried away as fast as her bandy legs could carry her, and was absolutely taking more time about checking the little detail than she needed. Death just stood there patiently. That didn't seem to help much, for some reason. Eventually, she plucked up the courage to sidle closer.

"Erm…Mister Lockhart was checked out by a party who wished to remain nameless – a concerned fan, you might say."

Death stared into the witch's eyes as only he could, an endless, absorbing gaze. The Healer swallowed. She'd heard that her old Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, could almost read your soul when he looked into your eyes. He had nothing on Death.

WHO CHECKED HIM OUT?

"She…she works for the Ministry, Sir. Dolores Umbridge."

THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME. The Healer collapsed in relief as Death looked away from her, and he strode away, his heels literally clicking against the cold floor. As he walked, he summoned a certain book, and flipped to the end. Dolores Umbridge's life story was not an attractive one. While the books could not predict the future, or even remember it in his own fashion, it was clear that her life was not going to be peaceful. It never was, when the Auditors involved themselves in someone's life.


	24. Quidditch, it's a funny old game

Chapter 24: Quidditch… it's a funny old game

"Oh ho, very good; very well put, m'boy," chortled Professor Slughorn, "Any one for any more?" he asked, proffering the half-empty bottle to the small circle of students gathered around his armchair. They declined politely. Slughorn shrugged and poured himself a generous measure.

The students, mostly from the sixth and seventh years, were perched on sofas, stools and poufs. They all seemed to be regarding Slughorn with a kind of earnest admiration but Harry barely noticed them. His attention was fixed on the boy sitting on Slughorn's right: Tom Riddle. He appeared almost exactly as he had when Harry had confronted his shade in the Chamber of Secrets; same black hair; same pale, handsome face; same dark and inscrutable eyes. Of all the students gathered there his expression was the most wrapt and admiring: a perfect picture of hero worship.

"Merlin! Is that the time?" said Slughorn, glancing at the grandfather clock standing in the corner, "You lot had better skedaddle. Don't want you to get caught out of bed on my account, eh?"

The students protested but Slughorn shooed them towards the door.

"No, no: I won't have you landing yourselves in detention and missing our Christmas party. Go on now," he said, smiling paternally. The students made a few noises of complaint but filed obediently out of the study. Only one boy held back: Riddle.

He paused in the doorway, and turned to face Slughorn. Harry bit back a yelp of surprise. Riddle's young, handsome features had vanished, to be replaced by the white, snake-like face of Lord Voldemort: Tom Riddle full grown. Harry felt a comforting hand rest on his shoulder.

"It's alright," said Dumbledore softly, "No need to be alarmed. Listen."

"Yes, Tom, what is it?" asked Slughorn, peering curiously at Riddle over the rim of his glass. He did not seem to have noticed the boy's transformation.

"I… I wanted to ask you something, Professor," said Riddle. Harry shuddered. The face was Voldemort's but the voice was that of a polite, well-spoken teenage boy. The contrast made Harry's skin prickle unpleasantly.

"Something to do with your schoolwork?" said Slughorn, "I'm sure that can wait until morning…"

"Not schoolwork, Professor. It's some private reading I've been doing, in the library. Something I didn't quite understand. I thought you might be able to help."

"Well I'll do my best, m'boy. What is it?"

"I was wondering what you could tell me about… horcruxes?" Voldemort's scarlet eyes narrowed hungrily as he spoke. Slughorn coughed and dropped his gaze.

"That's dark stuff, Tom, very dark indeed," he said quietly, "I don't know why you should be interested in that sort of thing."

"I've tried the Restricted Section but I could only find a few passing references," said Riddle eagerly, "I thought you might know some details…"

Suddenly, a white mist descended to blot out the scene. Harry heard Slughorn's reply but it was distant and distorted, as if through a faulty radio:

"I don't know anything about them! Nothing, you hear, nothing! Now get out and don't let me hear you talking about those things ever again!"

The mist lifted to reveal Slughorn alone in his study. He was standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames, a full glass of mead clutched tightly in his hand.

"Time we were leaving," said Dumbledore, touching Harry's shoulder again. Slughorn's study whirled around them and Harry felt himself being dragged upwards, as if through deep water. A heartbeat later and he was standing with Dumbledore in the headmaster's office. Fawkes, who was moulting quite badly at the moment, regarded them with disinterest from his golden perch.

"What… what happened to Voldemort in there?" said Harry, gesturing at the Pensieve lying on Dumbledore's desk.

"Memories are not exact records," Dumbledore explained as he picked up the Pensieve and placed it in its cabinet, "They do not work like Muggle cameras. They can be distorted by our fears and our prejudices. In this case it was Professor's Slughorn's fear of the man his favourite pupil became. He can no longer separate the brilliant student he taught from the monster he grew into."

"Is that why it went all misty?" said Harry.

"No. That was something quite different," said Dumbledore, "Professor Slughorn tampered with that particular memory before he gave it to me. He made quite a crude job of it, as you saw."

"So something happened that night that he doesn't want you to know. Something he said to Voldemort?"

"Correct. Professor Slughorn said something to Voldemort that night that he is deeply ashamed of; so ashamed that he has attempted to conceal it."

"Something about horcruxes?"

"Very likely."

"What are they?"

"Very dark magic," said Dumbledore gravely, "Some of the darkest, in fact. Very few dark wizards have ever attempted to use one."

"What do they do?" said Harry, wondering what could possibly be that evil; worse than even the Killing Curse.

"That's best left for another time," said Dumbledore, with a smile, "Right now it is important to find out what Tom Riddle wanted to know about them. It may be that he saw simply curious; his fascination with the Dark Arts began very early. Or it may be something else; something vital to our present struggle."

"So… how are you going to find out, if Slughorn has done something to his memory?"

"In a word: you, Harry."

"Me?"

"At the start of term I asked you to gain his confidence. How are things between you and the Professor?"

"Fine," Harry said with a shrug, "He keeps inviting me to these dinners in his study; me and Hermione and some others. Ron calls it the 'Slug Club'. He doesn't get invited."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, I doubt Horace would have much interest in adding Master Weasley to his 'collection'. But he will be very keen to add you, Harry; add you and keep you. I need you to use that. You must get the memory, the true memory, of what happened that evening from him."

"Isn't that a bit… manipulative?" Harry regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Dumbledore did not shout. Harry wished he would. He merely fixed Harry with a look, as cool and sharp as a steel blade.

"Do you think that I have not considered every possible alternative?" Dumbledore asked softly, "If I wanted to, I could go down to his study right now and tear the information straight out of his head. I could stare into his eyes and strip away the layers of his mind like the skin from an orange. I could lay it naked before me; every memory, every thought, every shameful little moment of his life. Would you prefer that, Harry?"

"No, Professor," said Harry, wanting to look away but unable to do so. Dumbledore seemed to have grown much taller and very terrible, as if a veil that had been obscuring his true form had suddenly dropped away while he was speaking.

"Or if I was lazy, like Voldemort, I could simply torture him into revealing the truth. Or force him to drink Veritaserum and question him, as I did to Barty Crouch the night Lord Voldemort rose again. Would that be better?"

"No, Professor," said Harry, still unable to break Dumbledore's gaze.

"Horace Slughorn is not a wicked man, by any standard. He has been my colleague and my valued ally since before you were born. But he is also a weak and frightened old man, and his fear may have dreadful consequences, not only for our community but the whole of humanity.

"This is the best way, Harry. At worst, it will mean that we do not have to force the memory from him. At best, by getting him to surrender the true memory, you may even help him come to terms with his guilt."

For the first time in his life, Harry truly understood the difference between 'nice' and 'good'. Dumbledore was a nice old man but he wore his niceness like a cloak. Underneath, he was stone and fire. Given the choice, Harry would rather have fought every Death Eater in Britain single handed than go up against Albus Dumbledore.

"Harry, I cannot stress how important this information is to our cause," Dumbledore continued, soft and unhurried, "But, if you truly feel that you cannot obtain it in good conscience, I will not insist."

Harry sighed. He could not remember the last time he had felt so small or childish.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Professor. I'll do my best to get the memory."

"That is all I can ask of you."

* * *

Autumn faded into winter and the trees dropped their cloaks of bronze and gold. The air became frosty, turning people's breath to silver mist and driving them indoors, leaving the castle's courtyards and battlements deserted. Down on the Quidditch pitch Harry stamped his feet to keep himself warm and prayed fervently that nobody fell off their broom today; the ground was as hard as stone.

Harry had been appointed the Gryffindor team captain at the beginning of the year, which cut even further into his already limited free time. Between studying for his O.W.L.s, extra tuition with the Horde and Professor Marlinspike, shadowing Draco and now trying to gull an old and crafty wizard out of his darkest secret, the only true peace he got was the few hours of sleep he managed to snatch every night. Had he been forced to choose though, he would have rather given up sleep than Quidditch: it was practically his only leisure activity.

It was also one of the few things he could claim to be successful at. Dumbledore had asked him to retrieve Slughorn's memory nearly three weeks ago and Harry had yet to make a single attempt. Asking Slughorn outright for it was out of the question, of course.

"You could drug him," Hermione had suggested, "Veritaserum isn't the only truth potion, you know."

"Try to drug the potions master _who taught Snape?" _

"Alright, think of something yourself," Hermione had snapped and sulked for the rest of the evening. Ron was not much more help:

"Get him drunk."

"Don't be thick! Have you seen the size of him? If I tried to go drink for drink with him I'd end up in the Hospital Wing."

"Be fun though."

So Slughorn's memory remained low on Harry's list of priorities, as did Draco Malfoy. Harry was still convinced that Draco was up to something. He looked thinner and more ill ever time Harry saw him. Harry and Ron had tried to follow him a couple of times but he never led them anywhere suspicious. When his extra classes with the Horde and Marlinspike permitted, Harry intended to get his Invisibility Cloak out and stalk Draco properly but at the moment he simply did not have so much as an hour to spare.

In one way Harry was quite glad he was so busy: it kept him out of the positively Byzantine web of romantic relationships that was developing between the Hogwarts students. He knew that Ron was currently dating Lavender Brown, and that Hermione was on and off again with Cormac McLaggen, but that McLaggen had his eye on a seventh year in Hufflepuff and that Hermione was really only dating him to get at Ron. Everyone in the castle, from the Fat Lady to Mrs Norris, knew that the two of them would end up together but as yet neither of them had got round to making the first move. Then there was Ginny and Dean, Parvati and Ernie, Neville and Hannah, Katie and Michael… Harry was very glad to be out of it.

Not that he wasn't tempted; with his heroic reputation restored during the summer he was now probably the most sought-after boy in the school, and Hogwarts was not short of pretty girls. Without thinking about it, Harry looked up to where Ginny was slaloming between the spectators' stands on her broom. Even with her hair tied back and her face pinched red with the cold, she was stunning. It did not hurt that she was also developing the kind of figure that made women glare enviously and grown men break out in a sweat.

Harry's admiring reverie was interrupted by a booming voice calling from the far end of the pitch:

"Tally-ho! Play up, play up an' all that! Do try to keep up, Stibbons!"

Harry groaned. Archchancellor Ridcully had been fascinated by Quidditch since he had arrived at Hogwarts and he had, at long last, convinced the staff to allow him to try his hand at coaching the house teams. Gryffindor had lost the draw and were to be his first guinea pigs, starting that morning.

Ridcully strode down the pitch, clad in shorts, t-shirt and pointy hat. Ponder Stibbons jogged behind, carrying the Archchancellor's broom.

"Right you chaps, let's have a huddle!" Ridcully roared jovially, startling birds on the castle Astronomy Tower. The Gryffindor team landed, forming a loose circle centred on the Archchancellor. They cast enquiring glances at Harry, who shrugged.

"Good job. Right, let's start with the basics. Who's got the Quiffle?" Ridcully asked.

"Quaffle, Archchancellor," hissed Stibbons.

"I ain't wafflin' man!" cried Ridcully, "I'm teachin' games! Very healthy things, games. Should get our lot out here; do 'em the power of good."

"The ball is called the quaffle, Archchancellor," said Stibbons patiently.

"Of course it is," said Ridcully, who was not one to dwell on past mistakes, "Who's got it?"

Ginny passed a quaffle to Ridcully with all the caution of a woman passing a loaded gun to a man recently released from a psychiatric ward. Ridcully took the ball, considered it and tried to bounce it. It didn't.

"So you throw this," Ridcully held up the quaffle, "through them?" he pointed to the hoops. The Gryffindor team nodded.

"And the team who scores the most goals wins. That it?"

There were some embarrassed murmurs and shuffling of feet from the team.

"Not _exactly_, Archchancellor," said Stibbons hesitantly.

"Well how do you win then?" asked Ridcully frowning. Slowly and hesitantly, the students explained the basic rules of Quidditch to him. Ridcully's expression became more and more confused as they went on.

"What kind of a bloody stupid game is _that_?" he said. The team all appeared to be intently examining their boots. It was something of a taboo among the magical community to criticise the internal logic of Quidditch.

"You lot might as well not be on the pitch," Ridcully gestured to the Chasers. He turned and drop kicked the quaffle into the stands.

"Enough of that nonsense," he rumbled, "Well, if those are the rules, we'd best play by 'em. You," he gestured to Jimmy Peakes, one of the new Beaters, "let's have a look at that bat of yours.

"Ah, this is more like it," Ridcully said, swinging the bat gleefully, "It ain't a real sport unless you can hit balls with a big stick."

Harry had a horrible premonition of where Ridcully's train of thought was leading him.

"Way I see it," said Ridcully, with the kind of authority usually reserved for phrases like 'So says the LORD your God', "if the Sneaker…"

"Seeker," Stibbons corrected.

"If the Seeker is the chap who wins the game," Ridcully continued, "then the key thing is to stop him. Who's the Seeker here?"

Reluctantly, Harry raised his hand.

"Capital! Now, I want you all up in the air and doing your damndest to knock Potter here off his broom. Potter," Ridcully said, beaming, "this'll be good practice for you when the other team are tryin' to do you in for real."

"I _really _can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Archchancellor," said Harry.

"Don't mention it, lad," said Ridcully, "Stibbons! My broom!"

Stibbons handed it over, then retreated to the safety of the stands.

Someone had clearly explained to Ridcully that magic broomsticks are a little like horses; they can tell when you are afraid of them. Ridcully, however, had interpreted this in a slightly different way. In his mind, the broomstick was a wild stallion that needed to be tamed and, if necessary, gelded.

"_Up!" _he roared at the broomstick. Harry shook his head, hoping that the ringing would clear from his ears before supper. The broomstick, displaying a survival instinct unusual in a piece of inanimate wood, leapt into Ridcully's hand.

"Right-ho, Potter," said Ridcully, mounting, "Ten second head start, alright?"

"Actually…" Harry said but Ridcully had already begun counting:

"_Ten… nine… eight…"_

Harry sprang into the air and hurtled towards the far end of the stadium. A moment later, the entire Gryffindor team rose after him in pursuit. Ridcully led the pack, hallooing like a drunken squire at a fox hunt. Ron and the Chasers were reluctant to close with Harry but the Beaters seemed to regard the exercise as good practice and merrily hurled Bludgers at him from every direction. Harry led them round the spectator stands, sometimes weaving between the goalposts, sometimes skimming just above the pitch.

"Come on you lot!" shouted Ridcully, gesturing to the Chasers, who were hanging back behind Coote and Peakes, "I'll show you how it's done!"

Ridcully shot forwards like a cannonball; far faster than Harry would have expected a man of his size or years to fly. There was no time for Harry to turn or even spin aside, forcing him to resort to the Quidditch player's most desperate manoeuvre. Gripping the Firebolt firmly with both hands, Harry rolled himself off the seat and hung, monkey-like, underneath. Ridcully barrelled past, spinning Harry's broom round like a leaf caught in the wind, and crashed into the stand opposite. Harry heard canvas tear, wood crack, splinter and then:

"_Sti-i-i-bbons_! Get me down from here!"

While the rest of the team were helping the Archchancellor disentangle himself from the bowels of the stand, Harry flew down to where Hermione had appeared on the touchline. The Death of Rats was sitting beside her on the crowd barrier. It was holding a mug of hot chocolate in its claws.

"Thanks," said Harry, taking the mug.

SQUEAK.

"Training going well?" Hermione asked, eyeing the hole that Ridcully had punched in the side of the stand.

"Marvellous," replied Harry, sipping his hot chocolate, "This may be the first year that I end up in the Hospital Wing without even having to play a match."

"The Slytherins will be disappointed."

"Won't they just? Something up?"

"Two things," said Hermione, "First, have you seen the notice they've put in the Entrance Hall? Apparation lessons start next week!"

"Yeah. Yet another thing I have to find time for," said Harry grumpily.

"I'd still try to go, if I were you. Apparation would be _so _useful."

"I'll do my best. What's the other thing?"

"This," Hermione handed Harry a square of gilt-edged card, "I've got one too. Thought I'd try and slip it to you while Ron wasn't around."

"Don't blame you," said Harry. The card read:

'_To Harry Potter and guest, _

_You are cordially invited to Professor Horace Slughorn's _

_FESTIVE CHRISTMAS PARTY_

_Saturday 7__th__ December._

_Dress robes required.'_

"Something wrong?" Hermione asked.

"No," Harry shook his head, "Just a bad memory." Had Voldemort received a card like this, all those years ago? Maybe on the same night he decided to ask Slughorn about horcruxes?

"You going with Cormac?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"I suppose," Hermione shrugged, "You?"

Harry shrugged too.

"You're going to be spoilt for choice," said Hermione with a wicked grin, "All those fangirls flocking round you…"

Harry glared, which only made her laugh.

"Look at it this way," she said, "perhaps this will be your chance to talk to Slughorn about the memory."

"Perhaps," said Harry, but he very much doubted that Slughorn would be willing to relinquish his best kept secret at a Christmas party.


	25. Hogswatch at Hogwarts

**Chapter 25: Hogswatch at Hogwarts**

Harry stood in front of the mirror, fiddling with his bowtie nervously. Why, with all the wondrous things possible with a wand, had nobody ever thought to create a spell to make them tie themselves? He had been working on it for about half an hour now, and it still didn't look right.

"Dunno what you're so fussed about," Ron muttered grumpily from the bed behind him. "You're going with Luna, at least you'll match like that."

Harry glared at his friend, starting to get annoyed with him. The redhead had been in a bad mood ever since he found out about the party to which he had not been invited. Harry could understand Ron being a little ticked off about it – no-one liked being excluded from their friend's activities, after all – but it was hardly Harry's fault. Or Hermione's, for that matter, and Ron had been positively vile to her in the last few days.

"Are you ever going to let this go? It's not our fault, is it? Anyway, I thought Dean and Seamus were planning their own party. Take Lavender along, have some fun."

Ron muttered something under his breath, and Harry looked back at the mirror, rolling his eyes. He fingered the bow again, trying to work out how to fix it.

"I'd just give up if I were you, dearie," the mirror advised him. "You're never going to get it right."

This was the mirror's standard response whenever Harry attempted something a little more exotic than his basic school robes or jeans – he shuddered to think what it would say if it had seen him in his loincloth – but on this occasion, he reluctantly had to agree with it. Grabbing his wand from beside his bed, he gave Ron one last look.

"Have a good evening, mate. Try and get Lavender up here, who knows where it'll lead?"

Interestingly, Ron winced. Perhaps 'Lav-Lav' was beginning to wear on him as much as she did pretty much everyone else bar Parvati. That would solve a whole host of problems; Harry's life would be immeasurably easier if he didn't have to keep negotiating proceedings between Ron and Hermione. With a last wave, Harry wandered down to the common room. The Death of Rats was toasting marshmallows at the fire for a group of second years, most of the Gryffindors having become used to the skeletal being over the years – some of the girls appeared to find him cute in some unfathomable fashion. The main spectacle though was Cormac, who was schmoozing one of the girls in his year, Rebecca Dutnall. Harry had to repress a snigger as he watched Hermione glare furiously at him, practically radiating an aura of fire and brimstone as she seethed. He was sympathetic, of course, but she had rather brought it on herself. He took a seat opposite her, nodding at Ginny who was sitting next to her.

"Looking forward to the party?" he asked Hermione innocently. "Careful with Cormac around the mistletoe."

"He can dream on," she muttered, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "There's no way she's better looking than me, is there? And she's a complete cow."

Harry simply shrugged diplomatically. He didn't really think Cormac was interested in her personality, somehow. Ginny caught his eye and smirked; she knew exactly what he was thinking. "You haven't quite got that bowtie right, have you?" she asked.

Harry shrugged. "Nope. Cohen neglected that area of life over the summer, sadly. And Uncle Vernon was never going to teach me." He smirked as the image of Dudley in a bowtie flashed into his head. He couldn't think of anything more ridiculous. Ginny reached over and tugged the bow undone, and he scowled at her. "Hey! It took me ages to get it like that!"

"Time well spent, I'm sure," she commented snidely, rearranging it so that it dangled evenly. "There you go. You look much more dashing now."

He blinked, and looked down curiously. "Dashing? Really?" When she nodded with a smile, he was hugely embarrassed to find himself blushing. He cleared his throat. "Shall we make a move? We'll be late otherwise."

Hermione nodded, and stood up, dragging Cormac with her. He began to protest, but apparently took her growl of annoyance for a sign of unrestrained passion, by the resultant grin on his face. "What, time to go is it? Lead on!"

Shaking his head in amusement, Harry led them off. He broke off at the main stairs, heading over to the Ravenclaw common room to collect Luna. His younger friend had been delighted to be invited, and had thankfully not taken offence at Harry's heavy assurances that they would be going as friends – he was very fond of her, but the thought of her developing romantic interest in him disturbed him slightly.

She was waiting outside her common room for him when he arrived, wearing a shimmering silver dress and enormous radish earrings. They were real radishes, and Harry grinned happily at her. "Good evening! And may I say that you look simply radishing tonight?"

She laughed. "You're so silly, Harry. I like the bowtie."

"Thanks. Bowties are cool, I'm told," he said with a wink.

"Exceptionally, yes," she replied solemnly. "It looks very devil-may-care at the moment."

"Yeah, Ginny decided it looked stupid the way I'd done it, told me I'd look better like this."

"Yes, I expect she did," Luna said with a cryptic smile. Harry frowned in confusion as she took his arm and beamed brightly at him. "Shall we?"

By the time they arrived at Slughorn's rooms, the party was in full swing. Even after the best part of six years in the magical world, Harry's jaw still dropped as he walked in. By day, Slughorn's office was – well, an office, if rather more lavishly decorated than was the norm. Now though, it seemed to more closely resemble the Great Hall; it had clearly been magically extended to positively cavernous dimensions, the ceiling stretching away above them, and the space comfortably accommodated at least fifty students and staff members. There were a few people Harry recognised from the Daily Prophet, as well. Slughorn had clearly been calling on some of his old protégés.

Quite apart from the expansion, the room was draped in luxurious red and purple fabric. There were dancing ice sculptures scattered around the room, variously shaped like nymphs and fairies, and golden snow was drifting from the ceiling, apparently enchanted so that it didn't cling to the guest's robes. Wine bubbled from jugs that were floating around the room of their own accord, and groups of winged creatures that Harry didn't recognise were carrying trays laden with food between the guests. One of them buzzed past Harry and Luna, squeaking unintelligibly; Harry gave up on trying to decipher it, and simply grabbed a handful of sausage rolls, offering some to Luna.

They munched happily as they wandered around, pointing and giggling at the numerous extravagances and impressive spells. Passing a table, Harry grabbed glasses for them both: closer examination revealed that they were, quite literally, glasses of water – not frozen, but enchanted to keep a consistent shape. Even when Harry filled his up from a stream of delicious wine, the glass remained in shape. Luna could not explain how it was done, and they resolved to ask Hermione if they bumped into her.

Half an hour after they arrived, bumping into her was seeming increasingly likely. Harry had anticipated not being able to find her, that she would be spending all her time avoiding McClaggen and his wandering hands, especially given that there were several pieces of mistletoe hovering around the room. At the moment though, McClaggen was incredibly easy to locate. He was slap bang in the middle of the room, sitting opposite Mustrum Ridcully, an ominous sight even when you didn't take into account the flagons of alcohol on the table between them.

"Now this is what I call a Hogswatch party!" the Archchancellor boomed happily. He – and indeed all the faculty of Unseen University – had been bitterly complaining about the local customs; from what Harry had been able to pick up, on the Disc they all eagerly awaited the arrival of something called the 'Hogfather' every year. Initially, he had assumed that the pig was the bizarrely named starter at the University Christmas feast. A whole pig would probably get the wizards in the festive spirit rather nicely. However, Granny Weatherwax had assured him that the Hogfather was a person, or at least represented a person, somehow. The details had been a little beyond him, but it hadn't seemed to make much sense.

As they watched, Ridcully and Cormac clinked their flagons together, and then quaffed. Ridcully seemed to breathe it in, rather than drink it – it seemed like only a heartbeat before he had slammed the flagon down in triumph. Cormac was still swigging his, some of streaming from the sides of his mouth. It didn't take him much longer though, and he grinned hazily as he slammed his own flagon down.

"Still…still standing," he declared, pointing a wavering finger at the Archchancellor. Nobody pointed out that he was sitting.

"Ha! I like yer spirit, lad!" Ridcully exclaimed. "Bursar! More scumble here!"

The put-upon wizard hurried over, grabbed the flagons and filled them up at the nearest stream, before putting them back on the table. They were emptied within seconds.

"What – hic – what're we drinking for?" Cormac enquired as he wiped his mouth. Ridcully looked confused, as if he didn't quite understand the idea of drinking for a specific purpose beyond drinking. "I mean, this is a competition, right? A drinking competition," Cormac clarified. "If it's a competition, there must be a prize! Stands to reason." He stabbed his finger into the table for emphasis, before wincing in pain.

"Ah, I follow! Yes, we need a prize!" Ridcully looked around the room for something suitable. "Damn…there's bugger all here."

"I know!" Cormac declared. "The winner gets…the winner gets…another bottle of wine!"

"Excellent idea, sir!" Ridcully grabbed his flagon and swigged it back, burping in satisfaction. Cormac followed suit, and promptly passed out, hitting the floor with a thud. Ridcully leant over and examined Cormac. "Oh dear…lad's got no head for his scumble! Bursar! Get that Hagrid up here, he's good for a drink."

The bursar hurried off, and Harry shook his head in amusement. Luna tugged at his arm, pointing out Hermione hiding next to a pillar on the other side of the drinking 'arena'. They both meandered over, Luna stopping briefly to grab two enormous slabs of pie. She offered one to Harry, and he bit into it. It was delicious.

"Wow! What is it?" he asked.

"Hippogriff pie," she responded cheerfully, munching on her own slice. Harry narrowly avoided vomiting.

"_Hippogriff _pie?" He spat out the remnants of the pie still in his mouth. "People eat them?"

"Of course," Luna said in surprise. "Didn't you know?"

"But…" Harry genuinely couldn't think of how best to articulate his feelings. Surprise? Revulsion?

"It's not like we kill them," Luna explained. "They die naturally, then get prepared for food. Why not?"

"But…what if they died of some hideous disease?" Harry pointed out.

"What about it? Harry, we've got magic – it doesn't matter how something's died, it's always perfectly edible by the time it reaches the table." Luna did have a way of explaining things sometimes as if she was talking to a particularly stupid child. Usually, it was one of her more insane notions, but this time Harry genuinely did feel idiotic. He kept forgetting to factor magic in to the more mundane aspects of life.

"I bet the Horde would love that," he muttered to himself. Cohen and his friends had spent a great deal of time drilling him about the need to pack plenty of provisions, and making dire warnings about some mysterious substance known as 'dwarf bread'. Harry couldn't be entirely certain whether this was bread made out of dwarves, or by dwarves, and he suspected it wouldn't make much difference. Hermione smiled at them as they arrived.

"Isn't this a wonderful party?"

Harry frowned. "Got to say, I wasn't expecting that, Hermione. Have you been drinking?"

"I've had a glass or two of champagne," she admitted, "but didn't you see what happened to Cormac? Serves him right, the slimy louse."

"If you don't like him, why were you going out with him?" Luna enquired. Harry winced: it was the subject that you just did not mention. Ever. Sure enough, Hermione glared at Luna.

"Why would I be dating someone if I didn't like them? Honestly, Luna, just because I'm annoyed with him doesn't mean I don't _like_ him!"

"Oh," Luna said, looking confused. "I'm sorry, I assumed that you were still interested in Ronald. You do keep staring at him."

Hermione gaped, and Harry had to conceal a laugh by coughing. Just as Hermione began to splutter a response, she was interrupted.

"Wassat? Trouble with your fella is it?" Nanny Ogg's wrinkled face appeared from behind the pillar, a wicked leer attached to it. "Come and have a word with me, gel, I'll get you sorted out!"

Before Harry could even blink, Nanny had latched onto Hermione's arm, a very Dumbledore-esque twinkle in her eye. She waved a flask vaguely at Harry and Luna. "Scumble?"

"No thanks," Harry said hastily. He had seen what the allegedly healthy fruit juice had done to Cormac, who was notorious for having a head like goblin steel, apparently due to the number of bludgers that had hit him. He didn't even want to think about what it would do to him – the Horde had taught him to quaff, but he had rarely drunk anything stronger than butterbeer, and scumble seemed even worse than firewhiskey, the most potent liquid he had ever tasted.

"Suit yerself," she said with a shrug. With one last appealing glance, Hermione was whisked off for a little girl talk. Harry and Luna looked at each other, and began to laugh.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Several hours later, and the party was winding down. Hermione had left much earlier, swigging down a glass of firewhiskey in an apparent belief that it would wipe her memory of the talk she had had with Nanny. Harry did not think that only one glass would be sufficient, but she had been staggering already, and he hadn't fancied carrying her back to the tower. Nanny herself had proceeded to get very merry, and had eventually passed out by the drinks table after crooning a song about a wizard's staff. Luna had professed to be rather confused by it, pointing out that wizards did not use staffs; Harry hadn't felt able to explain it to her.

He was rather surprised to find that he had enjoyed himself, certainly far more than he had been expecting. Slughorn's previous parties had always been excruciating affairs, but the festive atmosphere had lifted the occasion. Slughorn himself had made a very merry speech before joining Ridcully and Hagrid for drinks. Harry had known that Slughorn was something of a hedonist, or at least a drunk, but he had no idea just how much he liked his alcohol.

Harry walked Luna back to the Ravenclaw common room, but did not head back to the Gryffindor tower straight away. Despite the long evening, and the late hour, he felt too awake to go to bed, and knew that most if not all of his dorm-mates would be asleep by now. Instead, he went for a walk, deciding to practise some of the concealment charms that Marlinspike had taught him. A Disillusionment charm had him blending into the background; a few other, more obscure spells rendered him silent and scentless – being invisible would be useless if Mrs Norris could still smell him. As he walked, aimlessly, he wondered what Cohen would think of such spells, and whether it would affect the ancient hero's ability to knock Harry flat on his back in seconds.

It was strange, wandering the castle under such conditions. He was used to going about furtively, swathed in the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited, which was far too large and cumbersome for anything approaching a midnight stroll. As it was, he was going about hands in pockets, without a care in the world. Filch was notable by his absence, and Harry was beginning to think that the aging caretaker had already gone to bed.

It wasn't until he reached the seventh floor that he saw movement. Immediately darting into an alcove, wary despite his precautions, he peeked around the corner to see what was happening. Malfoy was coming out of a door, which melted away as he closed it. Surprised, Harry realised that Malfoy had been using the Room of Requirement, which would explain why Harry could never find him. That simple fact alone more or less proved Harry right about Malfoy's activities; Harry had never used the Room for anything that would be considered above board, so a probable Death Eater was clearly up to no good. Taking a moment to recast the spells he had placed over himself, and cursing himself for not taking the Cloak with him to the party, Harry slipped out of the alcove and followed the Slytherin.

Malfoy did not look well. He had always been pale, but it had always looked good, or at least purposeful. Now he looked gaunt, corpse-like. There were bags under his eyes, and he had lost weight, his robes hanging loose around him, despite the immaculate cut. Whatever Malfoy was doing, it clearly wasn't going well. It was apparently affecting his mental processes as well, or perhaps he knew something Harry didn't – he was making no effort to conceal himself, either through magic or more mundane means. He just walked through the winding corridors as if in a daze.

When he reached a corridor on the east side of the castle, overlooking the lake, Malfoy stopped and took out his wand. Opening the window, he poked it out, and began to mutter to himself. Harry couldn't quite make out what the other boy was saying, although it clearly wasn't a spell. It sounded like a message.

"…nearly done…more time…promise…will work!"

Malfoy almost spat the last words with desperation, and then waved his wand. A glowing, indistinct shape shot out of the end, disappearing into the night sky, and Harry recognized it as a Patronus. Malfoy closed the window, and hunched in on himself, looking about as if to make sure the coast was clear. Instinctively, Harry ducked behind a pillar – and nearly yelled aloud as a bust toppled from it. Malfoy reacted instantly, and the wall above Harry's head shattered under the impact of a spell, silver smoke streaming from the scorch-mark. Harry rolled away, drawing his wand in a swift motion. To run or to fight? Malfoy couldn't see him, after all. Then something rippled over him, a wave of heat from a spell he didn't recognise, and Malfoy called out:

"I know you're there – come out!"

Naturally, Harry didn't even move. Malfoy growled, and raised his wand, light streaming from the tip. When the light revealed nothing, he frowned, confused, and then nodded in understanding. With a lazy flick of his wand, he uttered two words: "_Finite Incantatem_."

The spell would cancel all of Harry's concealment charms, and he twirled his own wand, raising a shield as quickly as he could. It was just quick enough, although it dissolved as the spell hit it. He could not help smiling though. Malfoy had proved, without a doubt, that he was up to something. All Harry had to do was beat him, and the whole thing could be over. He fired back.

"_Absonitus!_"

Malfoy cried out in pain, and Harry pressed forward – but the Slytherin recovered much quicker than he had expected; someone had trained him. Malfoy stabbed his wand at the floor, and the rough stone suddenly went as slick as ice. Harry went tumbling to the floor, letting out an involuntary cry as he did so. Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

"Potter…_Sectumsempra!_"

Harry did not recognise the spell, but was sure it was nothing good. Marlinspike's training combined with his intensive sparring with Cohen; he whipped a tapestry from the wall even as he rolled away from his position on the floor. The tapestry was ripped apart, and chips flew from the stone floor. Shuddering at the thought of what the spell could have done to him, Harry aimed his wand at Malfoy, and hit him square in the chest with a nasty little spell Marlinspike had taught him. Malfoy went rigid, spasming slightly as a shock of electricity ran through him. Harry grinned viciously, and pushed himself to his feet. Cancelling the spell, he clipped Malfoy with a Disarming charm, and his wand clattered to the floor. Harry bent to pick it up, and realised his mistake the moment he touched the wand.

Malfoy's boot smashed into his face, and he fell backwards, dropping both the wands. He would have expected something like that from Cohen, but he had never thought Malfoy would get as physical as that. His glasses had broken, and he scrabbled for his wand.

"Looking for this?" Malfoy drawled from above him. Harry squinted up, and held back a groan as the other boy held up the holly wand. Raising his own wand, Malfoy cancelled the concealment charms, and glared down at Harry. "This is for my father…"

He hit Harry in the face with a spell, and Harry felt his nose crack. Blood began to stream over his mouth, and he spat it away. Malfoy moved, and Harry heard the clatter of wood on stone a short distance away. Still squinting, Harry watched as Malfoy strode off without a backward glance.

That could definitely have gone better.


	26. My greatest shame

Chapter 26: My greatest shame

"Stop poking at it."

"It feels funny."

"Of course it feels funny! You had it broken last night."

"Are you sure that you put it back straight?"

"I did the best I could," said Hermione, with an exasperated sigh, "but if you won't go to Madam Pomfrey…"

"No," said Harry sharply. He did not want any of the staff knowing about his impromptu duel with Malfoy. That would only raise questions about why he had been sneaking around the castle at night. It might have been a different matter if he could actually prove that Malfoy was up to something in the Room of Requirement but at the moment he had no hard evidence, only suspicions and guesswork. Better to let Malfoy think he had got away with it for now. There would be other opportunities to get the proof Harry needed.

"Hey, look at this," said Ron, spreading his copy of the _Daily Prophet _out on the breakfast table, "There's been a break-in at Gringotts!"

"Death Eaters?" said Harry, all thoughts of his potentially wonky nose forgotten.

"Dunno," said Ron, "It doesn't look like their style but who else would try it?"

The robbery had made the front page:

_GRINGOTTS BREAK IN! _

_Gringotts's staff were said to be furious this morning after it was discovered that several high security vaults had been emptied during the night._

'_We're stumped,' an anonymous source from the goblin-run bank told the _Prophet_, 'It's inconceivable that an intruder could have bypassed our defences without detection. But the only thing _more_ inconceivable is that this was an insider job. No goblin would dream of helping someone rob Gringotts, least of all a wizard.'_

_The obvious suspects are, of course, the Death Eaters but this robbery differs from their usual activities in several key aspects. According to both the Department for Magical Law Enforcement and the bank, nobody was killed during the robbery. The Dark Mark was also conspicuously absent from the sky above Diagon Alley this morning._

'_Although it is tempting to blame every major incident on the Death Eaters, they are not the only criminal element in our community,' Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt told the _Prophet, _'In previous cases You-Know-Who has been very keen to let his victims know that he was responsible. But whoever committed last night's robbery did so anonymously. With that in mind, we at the Department will be treating this as an open case.'_

_Locals issuing from the Leaky Cauldron in the early hours of the morning claimed to have seen tiny blue people heading in the direction of Gringotts._

'_The only useful thing that these witnesses tell us is that Tom serves some pretty strong beer,' said an unimpressed Shacklebolt when asked to comment. _

_Continued on Page 3…_

"Weird, eh?" said Ron eagerly. He was in a much better mood this morning after learning from Harry that Hermione had not enjoyed herself at the party.

"Yeah," said Harry, "But if it wasn't You-Know-Who then who was it? Who else is strong enough to rob Gringotts?"

Ron shrugged.

"Another goblin clan, maybe? They're always squabbling with each other. It flares up into a riot every couple of years. Dad's usually gets roped in to help calm things down."

"It wasn't goblins," said Hermione.

"How do you know?" said Ron.

"Because, unlike some people, I _read_ textbooks and don't just use them to prop up my desk," said Hermione, waspishly, "Did you even open '_Goblins: The Definitive History'?_"

"It had 'history' in the title."

"Well, if you had bothered to read it, you would know that theft between goblins is almost unheard of," said Hermione, "It's the worst crime you can commit in their culture; even worse than murder. Just mentioning the idea is a taboo."

"So what?" said Ron defensively, "One of the little buggers could have got greedy…"

Harry left the two of them to argue about goblins and wizards' attitude to non-humans in general. He stood up, turned back to grab a last slice of toast and happened to glance up at the staff table. Professor Slughorn was there, tucking cheerfully into a boiled egg. Beside him, a giant mug of coffee in his hand, was a distinctly red-eyed Archchancellor Ridcully. He flinched every time Slughorn's spoon tapped the side of the eggcup. Harry felt relieved that he had not taken up Ron's suggestion and tried to out-drink Slughorn last night. He would have been laid up in the hospital wing until New Year.

Harry was still considering the sheer insanity of this idea as he left the castle and headed down to the Quidditch pitch. It was a bitingly cold December morning, making the grass beneath his feet brittle with hoarfrost. He passed a pair of sombre-looking Aurors patrolling the grounds. Further on was one of the large standing stones the Ministry had erected to strengthen the castle's defences. A thin plume of smoke appeared to be rising from its peak. Concerned, Harry turned aside to investigate. On the far side he found Nanny Ogg, leaning contentedly against the stone and puffing at her long pipe.

"Wotcha," she said.

"Hi," said Harry.

"Have a good time last night?" said Nanny, with a grin so knowing that it probably had a PhD.

"Yeah," said Harry, "I don't think Hermione will ever forget what you told her."

"Always happy to help," said Nanny, still grinning, "You off to play Quadditch?" she asked, glancing at his scarlet robes, "I have a fancy to try it myself. You young 'uns have some proper broomsticks here."

Harry was momentarily lost for words as he considered the image of the barrel-shaped Nanny Ogg hurtling around the Quidditch pitch. He did his best to push it aside. This chance meeting had given him an idea.

"Nanny," he said, "What was that you were drinking last night?"

"You mean scumble?"

"Yeah. What is it?"

"Oh just a little home brew of mine," said Nanny evasively, "It's made from apples. Well, mainly apples."

"Do you have any left?"

"Jus' a sec…" Nanny disappeared round to the far side of the stone. Harry heard a strange sound like 'twing twang twong', and Nanny reappeared carrying a stout clay bottle with a cork stopper in the neck.

"Here you go," she said, handing the bottle to Harry, "Mind you don't put it in anything metal."

"Why not?"

"You'll see," she said, "What'd you need it for? Another party? Or are you tryin' to smooth your way into some young lady's affections? Shouldn't have thought you'd need it, handsome lad like you, eh?" She jabbed Harry with her elbow, chuckling.

"Err no… nothing like that," said Harry, although the idea of inviting Ginny to a secluded corner of the castle for a nightcap did briefly occur to him.

"Well, don't anything I wouldn't do," said Nanny. Harry smiled and nodded but privately wondered how many options this really closed off to him.

* * *

"Harry! Hermione! What a pleasant surprise."

"Merry Christmas, Professor," said Harry, holding out the bottle of amber liquid.

"Oh you shouldn't have," said Slughorn, taking the bottle and examining it with delight, "Taliesin's Original! My word, you have good taste m'boy."

Harry risked a small wink at Hermione; the spells she had laid on the scumble to make it appear as mead had passed the test of a connoisseur.

"Come in, come in," said Slughorn, "You must join me in glass. I insist."

Harry and Hermione made some half-hearted play at refusal but Slughorn would not be dissuaded. Moments later Harry and Hermione were seated side by side on his sofa, with Slughorn busy selecting crystal glasses from his drinks cabinet.

"Here you go," he said, placing the glasses on the table before them and uncorking the bottle. Harry grew tense as Slughorn raised the bottle to his nose but the enchanted smell appeared to pass muster too.

"Err… Professor," said Hermione, as Slughorn poured them a full measure of the supposed-mead, "I was wondering if you had a copy of _The Borgia Bumper Book of Poisons _that I might borrow? Someone has taken the library copy home with them for the holiday and I'm worried that I won't get it in time to finish my essay."

"I'm sure I will have. Excuse me for just a moment," said Slughorn. He disappeared through a door, leaving Harry and Hermione alone in the office. While Harrywatched for Slughorn's return, Hermione drew her wand.

"_Vaccus," _she said, passing her wand over the two glasses in front of her. Harry gave a cough and she replaced her wand just as Slughorn returned.

"Here you are: the _Bumper Book," _he said, handing her a volume the size of a church Bible, "Still the definitive work, even after all these years.

"So," said Slughorn, picking up his glass, "Merry Christmas to you both!"

"Merry Christmas," echoed Harry and Hermione. Harry raised his glass to his lips and, praying that Hermione's charm had worked, tipped it back. The liquid drained from the glass but not a drop touched his tongue. It would reappear in an enchanted jug, hidden earlier that evening under Hermione's bed.

"Well done," Harry murmured to her, as Slughorn made a sound like a walrus with bronchitis.

"Capital stuff," he croaked, reaching for the bottle, "Another glass?"

Harry and Hermione accepted more scumble, which they tipped harmlessly into the hidden jug, while Slughorn flushed scarlet. He was beginning to sway noticeably on his chair.

"Tha'sh good," he murmured, pouring himself a third glass, "Ve'y good. Merry Christmas an' a Happy New Year!"

The third glass vanished rapidly down Slughorn's throat and he slumped back in his chair, humming what might have been a carol.

"I think he's ready," Harry whispered to Hermione. He stood up and moved to Slughorn's side.

"Professor?" he said softly, while Hermione discreetly hid the bottle of scumble in her bag, "Professor, can you lend me ten galleons?"

Slughorn stirred, like a bear waking from hibernation.

"O' course," he slurred, digging into his pocket and pulling out a capacious purse, "Wha'ever you need… Favourite stu'ent an' all…"

Harry gave Hermione the thumbs up.

"Professor," he said, so softly that his voice was barely above a whisper, "What… what can you tell me about… horcruxes?"

"Nothin'," said Slughorn, shaking his head, "Don't know nothin'… Tol' Dumbledore…"

"But you do know," said Harry, "What do you know about horcruxes?"

"Nothin'!" cried Slughorn, "I didn't tell _him_ anythin'! No' a thing!"

"You did," said Harry, his voice gentle but implacable, "Tell me. Tell me what you told Tom Riddle about horcruxes."

Harry felt a twinge of guilt as he saw tears forming in the old man's eyes.

"Didn't mean to tell him… anythin'," sniffed Slughorn, the tears rolling down his cheeks and gathering on the tips of his moustache.

"Of course you didn't," said Harry.

"Couldn't ha' known… _Nobody _saw it… So bright…Head Boy!"

"He tricked a lot of people, Professor. You weren't alone."

"Didn't… mean… to… help… him," Slughorn was sobbing now, "Couldn't… tell… Couldn't… the shame…"

"Then this is your chance to be rid of it," said Harry quickly, "A chance to make amends for what you did. _What _did you tell Voldemort about horcruxes?"

Very slowly and shakily, Slughorn drew his wand and raised it to his head. He drew a thin, silvery thread of memory from his temple. Hermione rushed forward and conjured a little phial to store it.

"Here," Slughorn said, "My greatest shame."

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry. He was struck by how deeply Slughorn's tears had moved him; the pain of years had flowed out before Harry's eyes.

"_Somnus,_" said Hermione, pointing her wand at Slughorn. He fell back in his chair, snoring peacefully.

"Great!" hissed Harry, seizing the phial containing Slughorn's memory, "Thank you, Hermione. I owe you one."

"Only one?" said Hermione with a wink as she disenchanted their glasses.

They let themselves out of Slughorn's office as quietly as possible and then separated: Hermione to dispose of the scumble under carefully controlled conditions, Harry to deliver the memory to Dumbledore.

He all but sprinted up to the headmaster's office, his face beaming with a triumphant grin. The grin diminished somewhat when he arrived in front of the gargoyle that guarded the stairway and realised that he did not know the password.

"Sherbet lemon?"

The gargoyle did not move.

"Err… mint humbug?"

No movement from the gargoyle.

"Jelly baby?"

"Look, is this going to take long?" said the gargoyle crossly.

"Just open up will you?" snapped Harry, "This is important."

"Uh-uh," said the gargoyle, shaking his head, "Not without the password."

Harry was considering which four-letter word best described the gargoyle when it swung aside with a groan. Dumbledore was standing at the bottom of the revolving staircase, wrapped in a thick purple dressing gown.

"Harry?" he said anxiously, "Is something wrong?"

"I've got the memory," said Harry, holding up the phial. Dumbledore's eyes sparkled.

"Quickly," he said, gesturing for Harry to follow him. Together they climbed the stairs, Dumbledore bounding up three at a time, and into the office. With a flick of his wand Dumbledore summoned the Pensieve from its case and deposited it on the desk. Harry emptied the phial into the basin. Dumbledore stirred the silvery mist with his wand.

"Ready?" he asked. Harry nodded and together they bent forward over the Pensieve.

They were back in Slughorn's office again, with the old teacher holding court among his favourite students, Tom Riddle seated at his right hand. The other students left and Riddle turned back, his youthful good looks giving way, as before, to the nightmarish face of Lord Voldemort.

"Yes, Tom, what is it?" asked Slughorn.

"I… I wanted to ask you something, Professor," said Riddle, his teenage voice issuing from the pale, lipless mouth.

"Something to do with your schoolwork?" said Slughorn, "I'm sure that can wait until morning…"

"Not schoolwork, Professor. It's some private reading I've been doing, in the library. Something I didn't quite understand. I thought you might be able to help."

"Well I'll do my best, m'boy. What is it?"

"I was wondering what you could tell me about… horcruxes?"

"That's dark stuff, Tom. Very dark indeed," said Slughorn softly, "I don't know why you would be interested in that sort of thing."

"I've tried the Restricted Section but I could only find a few passing references," said Riddle eagerly, "I thought you might know some details…"

"I'm not sure we should be talking about this," said Slughorn, twisting round as far as his stomach would allow so that he did not have to face Riddle.

"Please Professor. You're the _only_ person I can talk to. None of the other teachers would understand. You're the only one…"

Harry cringed as he saw Slughorn's expression soften; his doubts melted so easily before Riddle's flattery. Harry felt ashamed to watch.

"Well, as I said, I don't know _very _much about them," said Slughorn, turning back to Riddle, "A horcrux is a work of dark magic. To make it, the creator must split his soul in two. One half stays in their body, while the other half resides in the horcrux…

"… which means that they can _never _die," said Riddle eagerly.

"Yes, that is the purpose of a horcrux," said Slughorn, "But they're very rare. Only the very strongest dark wizards have ever attempted to make one."

"Why?" asked Riddle. He looked hungry, almost desperate for the information.

"Well, for one thing, it takes a great deal of time and power to perform the rituals," said Slughorn, "But mostly because, to make a horcrux, the creator must commit a murder. That's… that's what splits the soul."

"Could you… could you do it more than once?" said Riddle.

"What?" Slughorn spluttered, "Isn't _once _bad enough, m'boy? I'm talking about murder; cold blooded murder!"

"But _could _you do it?" Riddle pressed on, "Could you split your soul more than once? That way you could have more than one horcrux, in case one of them was destroyed."

"I think it's time you were leaving, Tom," Slughorn mumbled but Riddle ignored him.

"What about seven? Could you split your soul seven times? Seven is the most powerful number; the number of completeness. You could make yourself _completely _immortal."

"No!" shouted Slughorn, heaving himself to his feet, "No, Tom, I don't want to hear any more about… about murders or horcruxes or anything, d'you hear me? Nothing_._"

Instantly, Riddle became as meek as a child.

"I'm sorry, Professor," he said, bowing his head, "I was just curious."

"Go… go on," said Slughorn, turning his face away, "I shouldn't have… Go. I'll see you at the party."

Riddle let himself out of the office, while Slughorn shakily poured himself a glass of mead. Harry felt Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder.

"I think we have learned all that we are going to learn from this memory," said Dumbledore softly. The room whirled around them, Harry felt the usual, sickening jolt and they were once more back in Dumbledore's office.

"Tea?" said Dumbledore, summoning the silver tea set from its cabinet. Harry accepted a cup. As he took his seat, Harry noticed how frail Dumbledore looked. The lines in his face seemed stronger than before, his movements slower and less assured.

"Is… everything alright, Professor?"

"Yes, Harry," said Dumbledore gently, taking the seat opposite, "I was not surprised by what we saw in that memory. But it did confirm my worst fears, and that itself can be a terrible shock."

"So, you knew that Voldemort had made a horcrux? That he made himself immortal?"

"I guessed. It is very important that you understand this, Harry," said Dumbledore, leaning forward, "Voldemort is a coward. He may have killed many men and women, and fought many duels, but he will only fight if he is certain of victory. Suffering, risk, sacrifice: he knows nothing of them. He is terrified of pain, of loss and, most of all, his own death. Ever since he was a young man Voldemort has dreamed of overcoming death. You saw it yourself, in the Pensieve. Tom Riddle desired nothing less than immortality.

"For many years I believed it was nothing more than that; a desire. But I was never completely sure. When he failed to kill you on your first birthday many in our world believed, or hoped, that Voldemort was truly slain. Rumours of his survival abounded for years but it was not until he attempted to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Hogwarts that I was finally convinced that he had indeed survived, albeit in a severely weakened form. It was then that I began the long and difficult search to discover how and why.

"There are only a few truly effective ways to prolong one's life with magic, and I knew I could discount one or two straight away. For instance, I was certain that Voldemort had not created a Philosopher's Stone, or he would not have attempted to steal the one belonging to Nicholas Flamell. Of the remaining methods, some were too uncertain and some simply impossible for a man of Voldemort's character to attempt. That left me, and him, with only one possibility: a horcrux, one of the most terrible magical artefacts devised by our kind."

"And that's why you needed the memory," Harry concluded, "You needed to find out what Voldemort knew about horcruxes."

"Correct," said Dumbledore, nodding, "But there was more to it. You see, I was almost certain that Voldemort had made ahorcrux and probably early in his life too. But it was the events of your second year, the adventure in the Chamber of Secrets, that made me wonder if he had made _more _than one."

"I don't understand. Where was the horcrux in the Chamber?" said Harry, confused.

"The diary," said Dumbledore, "Tom Riddle's diary, that possessed Ginny Weasley and forced her to unleash the basilisk on Hogwarts. It had all the characteristics of a horcrux: extremely powerful, malicious and capable of dominating anyone who came into prolonged contact with it. That is part of the magic of a horcrux. If the master is destroyed, it will do all it can to restore him. If left undiscovered I believe the fragment of Riddle's soul imprisoned in the diary would have eventually compelled Miss Weasley to seek out the adult Voldemort and help him return to power."

"But I destroyed the diary," said Harry slowly, "With the basilisk's fang… but Voldemort still came back. So there must be another horcrux out there."

"But how many?" said Dumbledore, "That was what I did not know and now, thanks to you, I do. There are five left."

"Five?"

"Five left," said Dumbledore, "I am sure Voldemort had made up his mind to spilt his soul seven times before he spoke to Horace; he was simply looking for confirmation that he would survive the process.

"So, Voldemort has split his soul into seven pieces. The first fragment remains in his mortal body. That cannot be slain until all the horcruxes are destroyed. The second fragment was in his old school diary. It is probably the first horcrux that he made. He may even have created it while still a student here. That fragment has been destroyed."

"And… the other five?" Harry said, tentatively.

"Are unknown to us," said Dumbledore, "Traditionally, dark wizards have used a ring to make their horcrux. They are small, easily hidden and often discarded by the unwary as items of no value. But Voldemort, as you have already seen, preferred to use more unorthodox items. He is much too proud to follow in the footsteps of others."

Harry felt as if he were sinking into deep water. How on earth were they supposed to find out what Voldemort had used to make his horcruxes, let alone hunt them down?

"Do not despair," said Dumbledore, seeing Harry's expression, "As I said, I have spent many years searching for these hidden horcruxes. I have conducted the most thorough investigation into Voldemort's life ever attempted. It is a long and depressing story, which I will not bore you with. But I believe that I have been able to sift through the chaff to find some valuable clues about the missing horcruxes.

"For instance, what is the one thing that Voldemort is almost never without?"

"Err… his wand?"

"Yes. And?"

Harry considered. Voldemort had never appeared to be attached to anything, even his Death Eaters. Except…

"His snake?"

"Precisely," said Dumbledore, smiling, "Nagini. Do you not think it odd that Voldemort, who has never shown affection for another person, male or female, should be so attached to a simple reptile? It is likely that Nagini is one of the five remaining horcruxes."

"What about the other four?"

"I have my suspicions," said Dumbledore, "In fact, I believe that I am very close to discovering the location of another horcrux."

"I want you to take me with you," said Harry suddenly, "when you go to find it."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, inviting further explanation.

"I know that I said I wouldn't kill Voldemort," said Harry slowly, trying to express thoughts that were still only half-formed, "And I won't, not if I can help it; I won't be a killer like him. But if we are to have even a chance of stopping him, of capturing him or whatever… Then these horcruxes have to be destroyed. If we don't… If Voldemort _never _dies… How is this ever going to end?"

"My thoughts exactly," said Dumbledore, gravely, "You have my word Harry. When I go to find this horcrux, you will come with me."

* * *

Sam Vimes pushed the door open and stepped warily into the vast, dim room beyond.

"Rincewind?" he called, "I want a word."

After the Patrician had a 'quiet word' with him, Vimes had summoned Rincewind for a 'quiet word' of the '… bury you in a matchbox by the time I'm through with you' variety. Shortly after that memos had begun to appear on Vimes's desk from Constable A.E. Pessimal, the Watch's tame bureaucrat. They were written in very red ink and contained some very large numbers. Rincewind was spending money like a nymphomaniac in a knocking shop, and Vimes was getting suspicious. Well, moresuspicious than usual.

The hall was one of those rooms that was really too big for Unseen University's buildings to house. But due to the wizards' love of ostentation, and their need for wider doorways, the interior of the Unseen University had been modified to contain halls, passageways and even entire buildings that did not feature in the external architecture. This particular hall was decorated with the usual mix of astrological symbols, dread carvings and mystic runes. In short, it was camp as a row of tents.

In the centre of the room was what appeared to be a small house besieged by scaffolding. Dwarf builders were swarming all over it. Beside this structure was a complicated tangle of tubes, chimneys and spinning windmills. Rincewind was standing nearby, directing two dwarfs as they fitted a set of lead pipes to the construction.

"Any idea what that is, captain?" Vimes asked Carrot as they moved into the hall.

"No, sir."

"It's not one of those new dwarf contraptions?"

"No, sir. At least, not one I've ever seen."

They came alongside the jumble of pipes.

"Rincewind!" Vimes barked, making the frail wizard leap into the air, "What's all this?" He gestured to the hall in general.

"Err… a Thaumaturgical Transdimensional Locator Portal and Reclamation Apparatus," said Rincewind. He sounded almost apologetic.

"And what does _that _mean?" said Vimes.

"It finds people in other dimensions and brings them back, sir," said Carrot. Vimes turned to scowl at him but was met with a look of pure innocence. He really was just trying to be helpful, Vimes realised. Not for the first time, he wondered what was _really_ going on inside the captain's perfectly formed head.

"But you don't know _anything_ about magic," said Vimes, turning back to Rincewind, "Where did all… all _this _come from?" He gestured to the hall again.

"I found it on Wiki."

"Wiki?"

Rincewind tugged nervously at his beard.

"It stands for… Wizards' Infinite Knowledge Index."

"Like an encyclopaedia?" suggested Carrot.

"Yeah."

"So you got this out of a book?" said Vimes.

"It wasn't in a book," explained Rincewind, "It was all on Hex."

"Your thinking machine?" said Vimes. He had always been suspicious of the idea of a machine that could think. If it could think, it could commit a crime, which made it more dangerous than most of the people in the city, who were able to commit crimes without any thought at all.

"Yeah. But I'm not sure _who _is writing Wiki," said Rincewind, "There seems to be new stuff on there every time I look."

"Can you trust it?" asked Vimes. Rincewind shrugged.

"I've cross referenced what it says with a few books from the library and it looks alright."

Vimes frowned. He was uncomfortable trusting a machine to help him solve a crime but, frankly everything about this case made him uncomfortable, and nothing more so than the prospect of telling the Patrician that he had not got a bloody clue what do. Like it or not, Wiki magic was the only way forward.

"Alright," he sighed, "How does it work?"

"Well it's not finished yet," said Rincewind quickly, "It will be another day or two before the arch is ready…"

"That'll be the portal?" said Vimes. Rincewind nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out several sheets of notes, written in a neat typeset.

"Yeah, that's the portal," he said, reading off the paper, "That's where all the energy is focused. You step through and into… well, wherever the faculty have wound up.

"That's the simple bit. The complicated bit happens here," he said, pointing to the jumble of pipes, windmills and chimneys. Now that he was closer, Vimes could see that all the tubes were gathered around a large bell jar standing on a stone pedestal.

"That's where you put the Artefact," said Rincewind, indicating the bell jar, "It links the portal to the Artefact's owner. I thought you could use this," he pulled a grubby brown sock from a pocket.

"Belonged to the Archchancellor," he explained, "Should bring you right to him."

"Don't you have anything more… magical?" said Vimes, "I thought you lot were all for staffs and goblets and the like?"

"You could I suppose, but socks work fine. Can you think of a more personal Artefact than a man's sock?" said Rincewind. Vimes could think of a few but none he was willing to go searching Ridcully's bedroom for. He let the point pass.

"So that's how we get there," said Vimes, "How do we get _back_? It's not much use sending us to wherever Ridcully's gone if we're just going to be stuck there with him."

"Same principle, but in reverse," said Rincewind, referring again to the papers in his hand, "You give me one of your socks and wear the other one when you go through the portal. I wait, say, two days and then I do the ritual in reverse. The link between your socks will draw you back."

Vimes considered the idea. It sounded ridiculous but no more so than the stuff with demons and magic lamps that wizards usually did.

"Captain," he said, turning to Carrot, "Get a team together. Strictly volunteers only. We're going to find our citizens."


	27. The Gaunt Shack

**Chapter 27: The Gaunt Shack**

Harry tapped his wand against the goblet half-heartedly. Sure enough, the spell failed to work; instead of transfiguring into the kind of watery goblet he had seen at Slughorn's party, so many weeks ago now, the goblet just dissolved into a murky puddle of silvery liquid. Hermione sighed, and waved her own wand, hoovering up the mess.

"Honestly, Harry, if you're going to practise this you could at least do it when we're not eating. You're going to poison your food, you do know that right?"

"When else am I supposed to practice?" he asked her irritably. Between classes, homework, Marlinspike's lessons, sessions with the Horde, Quidditch, Apparation lessons and Dumbledore's intermittent lectures, Harry considered himself lucky to get three square meals a day and a full night's sleep. Any non-academic or training related study had been relegated so far onto the back burner that it was practically frozen.

"I'm sure Dumbledore would be happy to take some time to teach you a few things," Luna offered. "He does need a successor, after all."

"Successor for what? I'm not going to be Headmaster anytime soon!" Harry said with a snort.

"Not for Headmaster, silly," Luna said, patting his hand affectionately. "You wouldn't make a good Headmaster yet. You don't like rules."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, shrugging. He couldn't really deny it.

"No, for his bowling team," Luna continued. "They only take the best you know."

For a moment, Harry tried to work out what Transfiguration ability had to do with a position on a bowling team, but decided that it was pointless. "We don't really talk much about magic," he told them. It wasn't quite true; while Harry would be the first to admit he was hardly a diligent student, he had never been stupid, and you couldn't help but pick up a few things when you spent so much time around the greatest wizard of the age – especially when you had had your focus sharpened by weeks of training under Cohen, who was if nothing else good at motivation. However, magic was certainly not the point of their meetings. "He mainly tells me about Voldemort. History, I guess."

"Why's that so important?" asked Ron, clearly baffled.

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. I think he wants me to sympathise with him or something." He didn't need to explain that this was a completely forlorn effort on Dumbledore's part.

"That's it? That's rubbish!" Ron exclaimed. Even Hermione looked put out by the information.

"I can't quite see why anyone would want to sympathise with Voldemort," she said dubiously. "Given everything he's done…"

"Exactly," Harry said emphatically. "Although some of it's useful, of course."

His friends nodded. While he hadn't gone into huge detail about his meetings with Dumbledore, he had told them about the Horcruxes. They had been suitably horrified, in Hermione's case mixed in with anger that there was some form of magic she had never even heard of. Even Luna had been shaken.

"Harry?"

Harry cringed, and turned around, putting on a wide smile as he did so. "Colin! Long time no see…"

"Hi, Harry!" Colin Creevey said breathlessly. He had been getting much better about his obsession, but the clear signs that Harry was preparing to seriously enter the fight against Voldemort had brought about a massive resurgence in his popularity, and Colin had fought tooth and nail to hold his claim to Number One Fan. Just being in the same room as him made Harry incredibly uncomfortable these days, which made the Gryffindor Common room a nightmare. The blond boy stood there, practically vibrating with eagerness, until Hermione took pity on him.

"Was there something you wanted, Colin?" she asked him kindly. He looked at her, confused, then looked down at his hand.

"Oh, yes! Message for you, Harry." He thrust his hand out, a bit of parchment folded there. "From _Dumbledore_," Colin continued in his most impressive tones. Harry took the note, and slit open the sealing wax.

_Dear Harry,_

_Please come to my office this evening, after your classes have finished. We will be leaving the castle for a short time this weekend, and I have something for you._

_Yours,_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

As he finished reading the note, it dissolved into ash that somehow burnt without heat. Colin gaped at this, and Harry shot him a pointed glance.

"Thanks, Colin. If there's nothing else…?"

The younger boy seemed to be considering this carefully, but eventually decided that there wasn't, in fact, anything else, and left them in peace. Harry watched him go in thoughtful silence. What could Dumbledore possibly want to give him?

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Several hours later, Harry strode along the corridor to the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's tower. It sniffed as he gave the password ("Dolly Mixture!"), a horrible grating sound; it had never let him forget his frustrated attempts to get in after Christmas. Trying to ignore it, Harry climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door.

"Come in!"

Harry pushed the door open, and walked in. Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, a small smile on his face. There was a long, velvet covered box in front of him. Harry looked at it, but did not ask about it.

"And how goes your week, my boy?" Dumbledore enquired politely.

"Not too bad," Harry said evasively. He knew the interest was honest, but it wasn't as if complaining about being so busy would achieve anything. He knew it was all necessary. "Professor Slughorn still hasn't said anything."

"I am not at all surprised to hear it," Dumbledore remarked. "I obtained some of Madame Ogg's 'Scumble' and carried out a few tests; I am happy to announce that it isn't quite as corrosive as Basilisk venom…"

Harry winced, thinking about what that could have done to Slughorn's not inconsiderable gut. The man had to have digestive problems already – but, equally, he hadn't taken so much as a lesson off due to ill health, so his hedonistic lifestyle had clearly boosted his immune system extensively.

"Oddly enough, that does lead me – rather tangentially, I admit – to my reason for calling you here tonight, Harry." Dumbledore reached down, and unclasped the locks on the box. Harry leant forward as the Headmaster reached inside, and raised his eyebrows in surprise when he withdrew a very familiar looking object.

"I am sure that you remember this, Harry," Dumbledore said, handing it to him.

The Sword of Godric Gryffindor.

It felt weightless in his hand. He climbed to his feet, turning away and flourishing it. Somehow, despite its lightness, the balance was perfect, responding to his every movement effortlessly. It was a thing of beauty, despite its almost surprising lack of artistic detail, something Harry had never really registered before. Apart from the jewel in the pommel, and the inscription on the blade, it was simple, plain steel throughout.

"There is no sheath that I am aware of, I'm afraid," Dumbledore said, "but I'm sure Cohen and his friends will be able to sort something out for you."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, still shocked. He certainly hadn't expected anything like this. He had rather assumed that the sword had been put in a museum somewhere, "But…your note said that this was for the weekend. Where are we going?"

Dumbledore smiled, and it was the most vicious expression Harry had ever seen on the Headmaster's face.

"I told you that I thought I had located another of the horcruxes, I believe?"

Slowly, Harry realised that he was mirroring the Headmaster's smile. He knew where this was heading.

"Indeed. I have now confirmed my suspicions, and I propose that the two of us should venture out to retrieve and destroy it. I hope you didn't have anything planned on Saturday, Harry."

"Well, I was going to do some revision, but I can put it off I suppose…"

"I am most delighted to hear it," Dumbledore told him. "It should be quite the adventure! Bring the Sword, Harry – I have a theory that it will be a most effective tool for destroying the horcruxes. And it will keep Cohen happy, quite apart from that."

"Is he going to come?" Harry asked. Dumbledore leant back, looking thoughtful.

"I have not asked him, but I am sure that he would do. I suppose another set of hands is always useful, and he does have more experience in these matters than either of us. An excellent suggestion, Harry."

"When do we leave?"

"Saturday afternoon. Meet me by Hagrid's hut at six o'clock. Don't worry about the dress code."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Commander Sir Samuel Vimes strode through the door of the Library of Unseen University, his expression grim. He was not entirely unfamiliar with magical travel, but he had never used it deliberately. At least there was going to be some measure of control over his voyage this time, rather than just being subjected to a bolt of lightning and a burst of magic. And he would have a good team with him.

Captain Carrot. Sergeant Detritus. Sergeant Angua. Corporal Littlebottom. Lance-Constable Jenkins, a promising young recruit, wearing his lucky red shirt. Fred Colon and Corporal Nobbs had volunteered to stay behind and 'guard' the portal, a prospect that chilled Vimes to his very core. If there was anything in the world that he wanted to ensure was kept safe, it was the portal back home. He had therefore assigned Fred and Nobby to patrol over by the Opera House, in case anyone tried to get crafty. They had accepted the duty gratefully, and the portal would be reliably guarded by Reg Shoe and a few others.

Carrot let rip with a textbook salute as Vimes approached, the other squad members following at their own pace. Vimes wearily sketched a vague salute back, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Morning, Captain. Everything ready to go?"

"Yessir," Carrot replied. "Cheery's loaded up all her equipment, I've got my sword, Detritus has got the Peacemaker – " the troll hefted the enormous siege weapon politely " – and we've all got some of the new crossbows from Burleigh and Stronginthearm. We're all set, sir, don't worry about us."

"Oh joy," Vimes muttered. "Rincewind!"

The scrawny little wizard popped his head up from behind one of the desks. "Yes, Commander?"

"Are you absolutely sure this bloody thing's going to work?" Vimes demanded. Rincewind's frown of deliberation did terrible things to his confidence.

"As sure as I can be," Rincewind finally declared.

"Well then, I'm sure we'll be there and back again in no time!" Carrot said jovially. Vimes caught Angua's eye, and they shared a long-suffering sigh.

"Let's just get on with it, shall we?" Vimes told Rincewind. The wizard beckoned them all to follow him, and led the way to the portal.

Even Vimes, with his longstanding distrust – not to mention almost violent disapproval – of magic, had to admit that Rincewind had done a fantastic job. The T.T.L.P.R.A looked like something out of one of the more fantastical short stories that occasionally got published in the _Times_. Lightning crackled from two great spires at the top, while dozens of little chimneys poked out of the main bulk, all brick and lead tiles. There was a vast glass pane in the middle, with a platform projecting from beneath it. Four dwarfs were standing slightly behind it, furiously shoving coal into a blazing furnace. A seemingly endless stream of pipes funnelled all over it. However impressive it might look though, Vimes did not want to know how it worked. He was fairly certain that the knowledge would only make him run for miles.

"So how does it work?" Carrot asked with genuine interest. Vimes groaned.

"Well, you put the coal in here, and then…" Rincewind trailed off at the look on the Commander's face. "Magic," he finished, lamely. "And steam, of course. Lots of steam."

"Just tell us what to do," Vimes growled.

"You don't have much to do, really," Rincewind reassured him. "You just stand on that platform, and let the apparatus do the work. When the lightning hits the glass, it should sort of…melt, and you just walk through. Nothing to it."

It sounded easy enough, Vimes thought grudgingly, although travelling by lightning was no laughing matter, as he well knew. Rincewind walked off to bully the dwarfs, and Vimes took the opportunity to climb up onto the platform, surveying his squad.

"All right lads – and ladies, of course," he started, with a nod towards Angua and Cheery. "We all know why we're here. We all know people who've vanished over the last few months, and I for one have had enough of it. We're not just going to let them disappear, are we?"

"No, sir!" Carrot called out enthusiastically. Vimes was appalled to see that Jenkins was copying him. He didn't think he could cope with two Carrots…pulling himself back together, he continued.

"Most of the people who've gone are, let's face it, bastards. Of course they are, they're from Ankh-Morpork! But they're our bastards. Even the wizards. We will not stand for this. We leave none of them behind."

Rincewind was trying to attract his attention, and Vimes realised that the machine was warming up. He hurried his speech. "We're bringing them all back, at which point we may well charge them with Behaviour Likely to Cause a Breach of Reality, but I'll decide about that later. Jenkins?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" The constable was depressingly eager. Vimes stepped aside, and pointed to the glass just as the lightning struck, and he couldn't help but grin at the good timing.

"Secure the other side. We'll be right behind you. Good luck, everyone."

Jenkins leapt onto the platform, and dived through. The other Watch members followed quickly behind. Vimes took one last look at Rincewind.

"If this doesn't work…"

"It will, it will!" Rincewind reassured him. "Wiki's very reliable."

"Hm," Vimes grunted. "Just make sure you bring us back safely, alright?"

"Absolutely!" Rincewind watched as Vimes disappeared into the swirling void. He looked around. It all seemed to be working alright. The sock was in place, revolving slowly in the Temporal Locator Chamber. The chimneys were chugging away peacefully. The spires were crackling with electricity. There was a veritable mountain of coal ready to be shovelled in, and dwarfs already paid to do so. This was perfect.

He span on his heel, getting ready to run…and a coil of energy lashed out from the void, wrapping around his waist. He barely had time to blink before he was pulled through, leaving behind only an echo of "Oh -"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Harry was finding it very uncomfortable walking with the sword at his hip. It might have been weightless, but it still banged into his knees with every step he took. He was unbelievably grateful for the rough leather scabbard that Truckle had given to him. It wasn't comfortable, but it stopped the blade cutting his legs open.

For all its awkwardness though, he felt braver with the legendary weapon at his side; more…heroic. It made him want to walk with a swagger in his step, but he resisted the urge, well aware of how ridiculous it would look. It had impressed his friends though, not to mention Cohen. Ron had practically purred over it, having been brought up on stories about Godric Gryffindor, and Ginny had had a very appreciative look when she saw him with it – although no matter what he wanted to believe about that, he had to admit it was probably more to do with her knowledge that he had saved her life with the sword than any aesthetic value it lent him. Cohen had been rather more practical, simply taking it from him and cutting a table in two before pronouncing it satisfactory.

The sun was shining as he walked down the hill towards Hagrid's hut. It made him hopeful for the day to come; he knew that even with Dumbledore, they would need all the luck they could get. Cohen and Dumbledore were chatting amiably to each other, an unusual pair. Dumbledore was clad in relatively sombre robes, a deep maroon with silvery runes stitched into the cloth, and Harry would never have said that someone could look more bizarre than the Headmaster. However, Cohen's loincloth and sandals looked distinctly out of place in the school, Harry had to admit. It was especially disconcerting when Harry realised that even after all his training, and despite Cohen's incredible age, Harry was never going to look quite as chiselled as the hero. Disconcerting and annoying.

Cohen flashed him a sparkling smile as he arrived.

"Morning! Ready to get some proper heroing under yer belt, are you?"

"I've had a couple of adventures before, you know," Harry reminded him.

"Sure, but you weren't a hero then, were you? You weren't even a wizard then!" Cohen retorted, a touch of scorn in his tone. Dumbledore smiled at this; Cohen still hadn't got over his deep-seated mistrust of anyone wearing robes, although when so many of them had tried to kill him, it was perhaps understandable.

"I'm sure that Harry will do us both proud," the Headmaster said calmly. "Now, I believe that you have never apparated, is that right, Cohen?"

"S'right," the barbarian muttered. "Can't see why I couldn't go on the horse… bet it isn't much slower."

"Maybe not, but you don't know where you're going, do you?" Harry pointed out. Cohen glared at him.

"Teleporting isn't proper heroic transport!"

"Perhaps we can overlook that this once? We won't tell anyone if you do not," Dumbledore assured him. This didn't seem entirely satisfactory, but Cohen didn't complain anymore. "Harry, how have your lessons been going?"

Harry shrugged. "Not too bad. I haven't taken the test yet, but I think I'd pass when I do."

"Very well." Dumbledore reached into his robes, and withdrew a long thread of string. He tapped it with his wand, muttering "_Portus_". The string glowed blue for a second, and then faded. "This Portkey will take us there and return us to this spot. Remember it, should anything go wrong, Harry."

"Hold on! You chaps, hold on, I say!"

They turned at the distinctive bellow of Arch-chancellor Ridcully. He was running towards them, holding his hat in place as he did so. He drew up barely out of breath.

"Can't leave without me, what? Share out some of the excitement!"

"I'm sorry, Mustrum, I thought you would still be asleep," Dumbledore told him politely.

"Nonsense! Been up since dawn, took a swim around the Lake! That Squid's dashed friendly, isn't he?"

Friendly was not how Harry would have described the Squid, but he felt that Hagrid would have been heartened by the Arch-chancellor's words.

"Anyway, I absolutely insist on going with you," Ridcully declared. "I'm so bored! Nothing left to hunt in the Forest, is there? Hagrid won't let me go in anyway, not after I nearly shot his dog, but accidents happen!"

"Your expertise will be invaluable," Dumbledore assured him.

The Headmaster offered them all the string, and they reached out to touch it. Harry braced himself; he had never got used to the sensation of Portkey travel. It was even worse than Apparation. The quartet disappeared with a pop of air.

They reappeared in a country lane, a large house distantly visible at the top of a nearby hill. Something about it looked familiar. Cohen broke away from Dumbledore, and vomited noisily. Harry grinned.

"Ye Gods!" Cohen snarled. "It wasn't that bad last time, not by far! I should have brought the horse…"

"What's wrong?" Ridcully asked, genuinely confused. "Been a while since I tried teleporting, but you never forget it. Like riding a broomstick! Best way to travel!"

Dumbledore's beard twitched, a sign of amusement Harry wasn't sure many would spot. Judging by Cohen's glare, he had.

"Where are we, Professor?" Harry asked, trying to cut off the argument. "That house looks familiar…"

"That, Harry, is the old Riddle house," Dumbledore told him. Harry frowned, then remembered.

"Little Hangleton. There was a horcrux there all the time?"

"Yes, Harry. You remember I showed you that Voldemort's mother grew up in a little shack? It's just round the corner. I believe that we will find what we seek there…"

Harry was unable to hold back a shudder at the memory of Voldemort's family. Whatever you said about Voldemort, however sympathetic you were, his family had been awful, even worse than the Dursleys'.

"So, which of the horcruxes are we looking for, sir?" The Headmaster had told him his theory about Voldemort's obsession with the Founders, and mentioned a few other likely possibilities.

"In all likelihood, the Gaunt family ring," Dumbledore told them. He set off as he talked, leading the way down the path. Cohen and Harry followed, scurrying to keep up.

"So, what's the deal with this ring then?" Cohen enquired. "Expensive, is it?"

"It is the last known relic of an ancient family," Dumbledore told him. Cohen's eyes gleamed. "It is also possessed by a shard of Voldemort's soul, and would do untold damage to the mind of anyone who touched it," the Headmaster elaborated. Cohen grunted.

"Is there going to be any decent treasure? Hardly an adventure if there isn't any treasure…"

"I'm afraid I cannot guarantee treasure, but I can promise heart stopping danger, if that is any consolation," Dumbledore said, slightly apologetically.

"Suppose it'll have to be, won't it?"

"I'd just like to say, I'm fine without the danger," Harry chipped in.

"As am I, Harry, but plan for the worst, hope for the best, as they say," Dumbledore called back cheerily. "And this is it!"

They had reached a decrepit shack. Part of one of the walls had fallen in, and a tree was growing through one of the windows. It was clear that no-one had lived there for many years. Despite this, it seemed oddly well preserved. For all its damage, it had clearly happened years ago, rather than over time.

"What happened here?" Harry whispered. There was an oppressive air to the place, as if he was being watched.

"Spell damage, I believe. Morfin Gaunt was arrested for the murders of the Riddle family – framed, of course – and he did not come quietly, even if he did proudly admit his 'guilt'. Nobody ever bothered to repair it."

"But that was years ago," Harry said. "Why is it still standing if it was half destroyed years ago?"

"Voldemort," Dumbledore said simply. He stepped through the gate, and began to wave his wand, muttering quietly to himself as he did so. Cohen looked at Harry, and leant against the gate, pulling out a pouch of tobacco. Ridcully took some, and busied himself with his pipe.

"Wanna pinch?" he asked, holding it out to Harry. He shook his head; that was one habit the Horde had not managed to instil in him, although he had appreciated the quaffing sessions when it came to Quidditch parties. "Suit yourself," Cohen said, inhaling deeply. "So, what's he looking for then?"

"I have no idea," Harry admitted. "That sort of magic's a little beyond me, I'm afraid."

"I thought you were good at it," Cohen said.

"Yeah, well, there's good and there's genius," Harry said defensively. "Dumbledore's the greatest wizard in centuries, everyone knows it. It'd be like saying 'Oh, that guy's a great hero – why isn't he as good as Cohen?'"

Cohen nodded in understanding. "Fair enough."

"I am looking for the defences layered on the shack," Dumbledore said, startling Harry. He hadn't realised Dumbledore's hearing was so good. "They are extensive, but not insurmountable. Please excuse me."

It took him a while. Harry had never expected to be bored on an adventure, although watching Dumbledore work was always breath-taking. The old man's wand never stopped moving, and he barely paused for breath. Cohen had started to sharpen his sword on a whetstone, and Ridcully leant over to speak to Harry.

"We don't have anything like this where I come from, you know. It's all rituals, and spells that take weeks to master and an instant to cast and forget. This is much more efficient!"

Harry nodded absently, distracted by the display Dumbledore was putting on.

"So, explain these horcruxes to me," the Arch-chancellor said.

Harry sighed. "They're pretty dark magic, about as dark as you can get. Voldemort split his soul into several pieces, and trapped them in objects."

"Bloody hell! How'd he do that?"

"Murder."

Ridcully scowled. "That's just not on. Gods, if he'd been one of my students I'd have had his hide for trying that! Just not done, what? Should have had some sense knocked into him early."

Harry couldn't help but smile at Ridcully's simple approach to life. Equally though, he couldn't dismiss it. It would probably have been of enormous benefit, if not to Voldemort himself then to the world at large. He was brought out of his musings by Dumbledore lowering his wand.

"I think that's it! Harry, if you could open the door for us?"

"Why me, sir?"

"There is something blocking it; you might as well put that sword to good use, yes?"

"Oh, right," Harry said, blushing slightly. He strode forward, drawing the sword as he did so. He hefted it over his head, and brought it down in one swift movement. The door fell apart, as did the cupboard that had fallen behind it, holding it shut.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore stepped over the threshold, and raised his wand once more. "Oh, very obvious… barely hidden at all, in fact."

"Why's that, do you think?" Cohen asked dubiously. "I thought he wanted these kept secret."

"Yes, but the main defences were outside," Dumbledore explained. "I believe Tom was relying on the shack never being found, more than anything else. It's not an unreasonable hope, after all. Ah, there we go…" The Headmaster walked over to a cabinet, and pulled open the door.

Inside was a gleaming ring, a stone with a simple crest etched into it. Harry stared at it, astonished that something so small could contain such evil. Then he looked at Dumbledore.

"Is that it, sir?"

Dumbledore looked closely at it, and his eyes lit up with triumph. "Yes, Harry. The Gaunt family ring. Can you feel it?"

At first, Harry didn't really know what the Headmaster was talking about, but after a moment's concentration, he realised that he could. There was a faint odour of something truly foul, just at the edge of his awareness. He swallowed bile, and nodded. Dumbledore reached out to take the ring, but it would not move. He frowned.

"I may be old, but I am far from feeble. Harry?"

Harry tried to take it, but again, the ring remained stuck fast. He looked at the Headmaster. "Permanent Sticking Charm?"

"I sincerely doubt it, Harry, but it is possible," Dumbledore agreed. He waved his wand, and tried again, but to no avail.

"Oh budge over," Cohen barked, pushing them out of the way. "Let me have a crack at it!" The barbarian's muscles bulged in his rail thin arms, but he could not shift it. Harry hid his smile.

"Mustrum?" Dumbledore enquired politely.

The Archchancellor shook his head. "No fear, I know a losing battle when I see one. Might try this though!" He clicked his fingers, and the other three ducked as an enormous fireball soared over their heads. It impacted uselessly against the ring, not even scorching it.

"Tough little bugger, ain't it?" Cohen said. Dumbledore nodded.

"Indeed. It will take powerful magic indeed to destroy it, I am afraid. Assuming we can release it…"

Harry gasped, struck by a sudden inspiration. "Hold on, let me try something…Voldemort's most proud of his Slytherin blood, right? Being a Parseltongue?"

"Ah! Yes, of course," Dumbledore nodded, beaming. "Capital suggestion, Harry. Although what would you say?"

Harry shrugged, and looked at it, concentrating on picturing a snake in his head. "_Release it…"_ he hissed.

The building shook, and the air around the ring shimmered. Harry looked around. "I didn't mean that to happen…is that good?"

"I don't think so, no," Dumbledore commented. "Perhaps we should leave…"

They fled, and not a moment too soon. There was a horrible crack as the quartet reached the lane, and Ridcully dropped his pipe.

"Ye Gods…look at the size of it!"

Some sort of Transfiguration had been applied to the Shack. The walls were twisting and reshaping themselves, the tree was being absorbed, and the whole structure was growing, higher and higher, until it must surely have been visible for miles around. It let out a deep, malevolent hiss, and Harry realised what it was.

A snake. An enormous, brick and mortar snake.

"You ready, kid?" Cohen asked him, and he heard the hero draw his battered and chipped sword. Harry's only response was to draw the Sword of Gryffindor with his left hand, and his wand with his right. Beside him, Ridcully whipped up a fireball, and Dumbledore's eyes blazed as he stood tall, his wand raised above his head.

"I'm ready."


	28. The one thing he never understood

Chapter 28: The one thing he never understood 

The giant snake opened its mouth. Two shards of dirty glass protruded from its upper jaw like fangs. Fast as a speeding train, it lunged at Harry and Cohen. Dumbledore appeared between them, wand raised. The snake struck a barrier above Dumbledore's head with a burst of golden light and a deep, booming sound like a gong. The snake turned, lashing out with its tail. Dumbledore twirled his wand and the tail struck three times against the golden barrier.

"That's it, Dumbledore, keep it there!" roared Ridcully. The snake turned back towards Dumbledore, raising its head for another blow. Ridcully's fireball blazed through the air like a meteor. It hit the snake just below its head, tongues of fire cascading down its body.

As the smoke cleared it was obvious that the spell had had no effect on the snake; its dull brown hide was barely charred. Ridcully swore loudly, eloquently and great length.

"Nice try, lad," said Cohen, "but this is a job for proper heroes. Follow me, Harry!" He bounded forward, sword raised high.

"Harry, stay back!" said Dumbledore, putting his arm across Harry's chest. Cohen did not seem to notice that he was charging alone. He ran on, cackling, and brought his sword down on the snake's body in a long overhead swing. The steel blade, honed through years of use to slice cleanly through flesh and bone, barely scratched the hard baked clay. The snake writhed, seeking to crush Cohen beneath its coils, but he slipped away so quickly Harry would have sworn that the barbarian hero had Apparated.

Not one to be deterred by something as trivial as empirical evidence, Ridcully hurled another fireball at the snake. Dumbledore attacked too, shooting a beam of searing white light from his wand. Harry did his best to aid them, hitting the snake with a neatly aimed Blasting Curse. The snake staggered under the assault but its hide, though charred and blackened, was unbroken. Cohen rushed forward again, cutting and stabbing as he dodged through the twisting coils, but with little effect.

"Come on," he shouted to Harry, "You've got a magic sword, haven't you? Get stuck in!"

"It's worth a try," said Dumbledore, waving Harry forward, "We'll keep it occupied." Dumbledore pointed his wand at a nearby tree, made an intricate sign in the air and pointed at the snake. The tree lifted itself out of the ground and hurtled through the air like a javelin, breaking across the snake's head with a shuddering crack. The force of the blow drove the snake to the ground but it was not destroyed.

Harry darted towards the snake's tail as Ridcully pounded its head with thunderbolts and Dumbledore conjured numerous chains to pin it down. Harry, still holding his wand in his left hand, raised the sword of Gryffindor in his right and swung at the thrashing brown tail. The blade bit deep into the brick and mortar. The snake, as if feeling the wound like a living creature, gave a great convulsion. Dumbledore's chains shattered. The snake thumped against the earth, throwing the four humans to the ground.

Harry fell hard on his side. He rolled over and realised he had dropped both his wand and sword. The snake loomed over him. Harry thrust his hand out, grabbed what felt like the wand and raised it above his head as the snake descended, its glass fangs speeding towards his chest. Too late Harry realised that he had grabbed the sword of Gryffindor. In desperation he tried to channel his magic down the sword, hoping to throw up some sort of shield.

A fountain of red flames erupted from the tip of the sword. The blast hit the snake straight in the face, hurling it backwards. Harry gripped the handle with both hands, trying to maintain control of the phenomenal power he had unleashed. This was old magic, powerful and primal, as if the sword contained the soul of a volcano or a forest fire. The flames continued to rise, driving the snake back. For a moment they seemed to take on a shape: a huge red lion's head, snarling and roaring in defiance. Then the flames faded, receded and vanished.

"That's cheating, that is," said Cohen grumpily.

"Very impressive," said Dumbledore, smiling as he helped Harry to his feet, "But I am afraid it is still not enough." Harry looked across the field. The snake had gouged a long furrow in the earth as it was thrown back, splintering trees and smashing rocks, but it was already raising itself up, ready to attack again.

"Time to call it a day," said Ridcully, "No sense in beating our heads against a brick wall."

"We have no choice. We must get the horcrux," said Dumbledore. He pointed to the snake. The Gaunt ring glimmered in the middle of its forehead like a third eye.

"I reckon the lad's sword could cut it out," said Cohen.

"What do you think, Harry?" said Dumbledore.

"I'm game," said Harry, "Can you get it to hold still?"

"Oh I'm sure we can," Dumbledore said with a wink.

The snake glided towards them, head low to the ground. Harry and Dumbledore raised their wands. Harry conjured a net of golden light to envelop its head. Dumbledore opted for something more eccentric: a huge opaque fist, as big as a jeep, that pummelled the snake's nose into the dirt. Harry began to run but before he had taken five steps the snake had shaken off the net and was moving forwards again.

"Mine!" cried Cohen, leaping between Harry and the snake. The snake slashed at Cohen with its fangs. Cohen parried and riposted, pushing the snake's nose away with the flat of his blade. Ridcully hammered it with another fireball.

"Now, Harry!" shouted Dumbledore, enchanting the ground to curl up over the snake's body like a wave breaking over a sandbank. Harry darted forward, sword raised, casting a Sticking Charm to seal the snake's jaws together.

He was almost within arm's reach of the snake when Dumbledore's spell failed. The snake's whole body convulsed, throwing clods of dirt and stone high into the air. Its head flailed back and forth. Cohen skipped aside. Harry tried to do the same but he was too slow. The snake's head caught his shoulder and sent him tumbling across the ground. The sword of Gryffindor slipped from his hand and span away, disappearing behind the snake.

"Get back!" said Dumbledore, fending off the snake's next blow with a shield of golden light. Ridcully pulled Harry to his feet and practically dragged him behind a nearby hedge. Cohen followed, having finally given up trying to hack the snake to bits.

Harry shook off Ridcully as soon as he could get his balance. On the far side of the hedgerow he could see Dumbledore moving steadily backwards, deflecting the snake's attacks with his golden shield, and leading it away from his companions. The sword of Gryffindor was lying in the grass on the far side of the field.

"Go help Dumbledore," said Harry, "I'll get the sword…"

Any reply the older men might have given was drowned out by a colossal roar of thunder. Harry glanced up at the blue sky, dusted with a few wisps of white cloud. A black circle had appeared in the air above the field. It was not part of the sky; it was purest void, cut into the air itself. A finger of blinding white lightning shot out from the void, striking the ground behind the giant snake. A young man wearing a bright red shirt and battered breastplate appeared where the lightning had fallen. He looked very confused. The snake twisted round, ignoring Dumbledore, and crushed the man with a swipe of its tail.

There was a second, louder blast of thunder. The void widened, disgorging multiple tendrils of lightning. Dumbledore Apparted to Harry's side.

"What's happening?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," said Dumbledore, "I've never seen this before…"

More people appeared in the field: two men in armour, a bearded dwarf, a woman with long blonde hair, a skinny man wearing a pointy hat and a hulking troll-like creature made of stone. The snake turned back and forth, confused.

"What the bloody –? Detritus!" shouted one the armoured men, "Piecemaker, now!" The stone troll raised a giant crossbow, loaded with hundreds of arrows.

"Get down!" bellowed Ridcully, grabbing Dumbledore and Harry and dragging them to the floor. Harry heard a whirring noise, like a flock of birds taking flight, followed by a gravelly crunch. Then there was silence.

Very cautiously, Harry and the others peered over the hedgerow again. The strangers were picking themselves up from the grass. There was no sign of the snake; only a pile of brick dust and splintered wood. The stone troll holstered its crossbow with an air of workmanlike satisfaction.

"Vimes?" said Ridcully, crossing the hedgerow. Harry and Dumbledore followed at a distance. Cohen leant against a nearby tree and rolled himself a cigarette.

"Archchancellor?" said one of the armoured men suspiciously. He had the grizzled, weather-beaten face of a man who spent most of his time out of doors doing unpleasant things.

"Ye gods! What are you doing here man?"

"Looking for you."

"But how –?"

"Good question," said Vimes, looking round, "Ah! Detritus," he barked, "stop him!" The stone troll span round and, with remarkable speed for so large a creature, grabbed the skinny man in the pointy hat who had been trying to disappear quietly into a nearby copse.

"Rincewind?" cried Ridcully.

Holding firm to the back of Rincewind's robes, Detritus dangled him four feet above the ground and just out of reach of the raging Vimes.

"You stupid bastard! How are we supposed to get back to Ankh-Morpork now?"

"It wasn't my fault," bleated Rincewind but his protest was drowned in the tide of Vimes's fury:

"Bloody wizards! I knew I should have told Vetinari where he could stick this case..."

"Sir," said the other armoured man, "We've found Lance-Constable Jenkins. He's dead, sir." He and the blonde woman had pulled a very bloody, very squashed body out from beneath the pile of brick dust.

"Ye gods," Vimes growled, "Can you get us back?" he said, turning on Rincewind. The wizard raised his arms in the universal gesture for 'I dunno, guv'.

"Maybe?" he ventured, "I don't know. All my notes from Wiki are back at the university."

"Commander, what the _hell_ is going on?" demanded Ridcully.

"Yes, I believe introductions are required all round," said Dumbledore mildly.

"Who the –? Very well," said Vimes. Harry and Dumbledore were introduced to Commander Vimes, Captain Carrot, Sergeants Angua and Detritus and Corporal Littlebottom of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, and also Rincewind, Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography at Unseen University. Apparently, they had come from same world as Ridcully.

"Where are the rest of your lot?" Vimes asked him.

"Back at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?"

"School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," said Dumbledore, "Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster. And this is Harry Potter, one of my finest students."

"More wizards," Vimes groaned, "I might have known…"

"Perhaps it would help if you explained things from the beginning?" suggested Carrot.

"Would you be so good as to explain, Archchancellor?" said Dumbledore, "Harry and I have some urgent business to conclude."

Ridcully swelled up with self-importance and launched into a long, meandering explanation of what was happening in Britain and how he had come to be involved in it. While the Watch listened with the stoic expression of policemen everywhere, who are used to sifting through people's inane ramblings for the precious grain of relevant fact, Harry and Dumbledore searched the pile of brick dust. The Gaunt ring was buried near the bottom.

"Would you be so good as to fetch the sword, Harry?" said Dumbledore, levitating the ring out of the dust with his wand. He conjured up a small table and brought the ring to rest on it. Harry retrieved the sword of Gryffindor. It had survived the battle without a single mark; the blade was not notched or stained in any way.

"One blow ought to do it," said Dumbledore, stepping aside. Harry raised the sword with both hands and brought it down in a long, overhead swing. There was a flash of vivid red light when the blade struck but the ring was undamaged.

"Not even a scratch," Dumbledore murmured, bending low over it.

"But if the sword can't destroy it…" said Harry. Dumbledore raised his hand.

"A moment, if you please."

Dumbledore levitated the ring into the air once more and made repeated passes at it with his wand. Rainbow lights shimmered around it; shapes of stars, crescents moons, pentagrams and other, more intricate symbols that Harry did not recognise. After a few minutes of this Dumbledore lowered his wand. The ring remained floating in the air before him.

"Oh Tom," he murmured, "It's the one thing you never understood." Harry did not think Dumbledore had intended to say this out loud.

"Harry," said Dumbledore, louder and clearer now, "Listen to me very carefully. I want you to do exactly as I say." He was not looking at Harry as he spoke. He was staring off into the distance, as if looking at something only he could see. "The portkey is hidden in the roots of the large beech tree in the lane. Take the others back to Hogwarts. When you get there, go straight to my office. Do not let anyone stop you. Take my Pensieve and my collection of memories and hide them. Hide them and use them to finish what we have begun here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but what -?"

"I'm afraid Voldemort has left us with only one way to destroy the ring. He must have known that this was the most vulnerable of his horcruxes. He has left us with only one path; a path that he never believed anyone would choose."

"Professor, what-?"

"Goodbye, Harry. And good luck."

"Professor-!"

Dumbledore's hand shot out and grabbed the ring. Pocketing his wand, he placed the ring on the third finger of his right hand. Suddenly a great light shone from Dumbledore's hand. It spread rapidly up his arm, across his chest, down his limbs and up over his head. For a moment or perhaps it was longer, Harry could never remember, Dumbledore was a being of purest light. His robes were white as a dove's wing and his hair was shining gold.

Dumbledore threw back his head and screamed. The light became a white fire that burned along his bones, through flesh and skin and clothes. Harry flung an arm across his face to protect his eyes. When he lowered it the light was gone. A blackened skeleton lay at his feet, a thin band of warped metal on the third finger of its right hand.

* * *

"Wake up, boy."

Draco Malfoy stirred groggily on his bed. He needed these afternoon naps. Sleep was precious to him these days, disturbed though it often was.

"Wha'? What is it?" He could not see anybody in the room.

"Wake up," said the voice, "We must talk. Alone."

"Alright, alright," grumbled Draco, climbing to his feet and heading to the door. He poked his head out into the Slytherin common room.

"Goyle!" he hissed, spying his lackey sprawled by the fireplace. Goyle lumbered over.

"Make sure I'm not disturbed," Draco ordered, "Say I've got a girl in here or something."

"A'right," Goyle mumbled.

Draco closed the door and turned back. Dawlish, the wiry-haired Auror, was standing beside Draco's bed. He had a silvery invisibility cloak folded over his arm.

"_Silencio_," he said, pointing his wand at the door.

"What do you want?" Draco asked nervously. Dawlish only ever met him afterhours, in secluded corners of the castle. Meeting in the Slytherin dungeon, near so many students of questionable loyalty, was very dangerous.

"Dumbledore has left the grounds," said Dawlish, "He's taken Potter and two of the strangers with him."

"So?"

"The Dark Lord's plan has changed. Is the cabinet ready?"

"Yes… yes, it is," said Draco, sudden fear turning his guts to water, "I mean, if I had more time…"

"You don't. We attack tonight. You have one hour. Prepare the cabinet."


	29. The Battle of Hogwarts

**Chapter 29: The Battle of Hogwarts**

Harry stared at the body – if it could still be called a body – in the fading twilight. He could not believe that Dumbledore was gone; it just wasn't possible. Sirius's death had been agonising, but it had come to make sense, in a twisted fashion. He had been the closest thing Harry had to a father, but he was just a normal wizard. That had been the appeal, in a way. Dumbledore though…Dumbledore was a legend, the greatest sorcerer of the age. He couldn't just be dead.

He didn't even react when Cohen placed his gnarled hand gently on his shoulder.

"Come on, lad," the barbarian said gently. "Time to go."

Harry just knelt there, only dimly aware that Cohen had spoken at all. It wasn't until Cohen bent down to gather Dumbledore into his arms that he moved.

"No. I'll carry him."

"You sure?" Cohen took a step back in surprise as Harry's eyes flashed, and he nodded. "Sure, go for it."

Harry made sure that his wand and Gryffindor's sword were tucked into his robes, and stood up, Dumbledore's charred body hideously light in his arms. He could still feel the searing heat that had killed him, radiating from his body, and he shuddered briefly. When he looked up, his eyes were hard. He checked to make sure that the ring was still on Dumbledore's finger, then turned to face the others. Ridcully looked like he was in shock; the new arrivals more confused than anything else, but staying quiet.

"Follow me," he said. And they did.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The Portkey deposited them back at Hagrid's hut. Harry could see the flicker of firelight through the window, and for one moment felt a desperate urge to knock on the door and talk to his friend – but he couldn't. He couldn't face dealing with Hagrid's grief, not yet. He knew he would have to face someone soon, probably McGonagall, but he needed more time.

"Where are we?" one of the new arrivals asked, a youngish man whose red hair made him look like a Weasley after a solid decade of intense physical training and healthy living. Through his mental fog, Harry vaguely remembered him being introduced as Captain Carrot.

"Hogwarts – it's the local equivalent of the University," Ridcully explained in hushed tones. "Although the students are younger. And there're more of them. And they don't eat enough. And – "

"Yes, you said," the stone faced man cut in. "Mustrum, what the bloody hell is going on? What happened to that other wizard?"

"He's dead," Harry said shortly. He closed his eyes for a long moment. "He's dead."

"And he gave you a job," Cohen reminded him. Harry opened his eyes, and looked at him. Cohen was right, he realised. This wasn't the time to indulge his grief. He nodded his acknowledgement.

"Yeah. I need to get up to the castle. To Dumbledore's office."

"Lead the way!" Ridcully declared. They all followed him, Dumbledore's body still in his arms. He could hear Ridcully explaining all about Hogwarts, and pointing out the key areas of the castle and grounds to the people in armour. Harry suddenly realised that they had lost one of their own men; he felt he ought to say something, but had no idea what. He was too busy trying to work out what to say to the people they would inevitably bump into on their way.

As they walked into the atrium, he heard footsteps clattering on the stone floor, and he braced himself. Professor McGonagall came flying round the corner, her wand in her hand and a frantic expression on her face. When she saw Harry, she visibly relaxed.

"Potter, thank Merlin. I was in the office, and the Portkey registered. I was worried…where is Professor Dumbledore?"

Harry just looked at her, unable to speak. She looked back at him, confused and clearly beginning to worry. Then she looked down, at Harry's arms.

"Potter, what on earth…what…" She raised her hand to her mouth, shocked beyond words as the penny dropped.

"Professor, I…I'm so sorry. There was nothing I could do."

"How?" she whispered. Harry hesitated. He wasn't sure how much Dumbledore had revealed to the other members of staff, and the Order – but he couldn't lie to her. Not completely. Not now.

"He gave his life to help destroy Voldemort," he whispered. McGonagall nodded distractedly, her eyes still fixed on the horrific sight. "Professor, I need to go to his office immediately."

"Yes, of course." McGonagall spoke, but did not move. Harry waited for a moment, hoping she would move, but it soon became apparent that she was too deep in shock. He looked over his shoulder at Ridcully, who nodded.

"Come on, my dear woman. Let's take him to his rest."

Once more, Harry led the way. Miraculously, they saw no-one else on their way to the office. As they approached, the gargoyle swung away from the stairs, as if it was somehow aware of what had happened. The door swung open, and Fawkes trilled a lament as they entered. Harry placed Dumbledore's body on the desk, and the phoenix flapped over, bending his head to weep over his master's body. Harry reached out to stroke his feathers sadly.

"I don't think that's going to do much good, Fawkes. I'm sorry."

As McGonagall sank into the chair, Harry turned to Dumbledore's cabinet. He opened it, riffling through the papers and trinkets, looking for the Penseive. In frustration, he jabbed his wand inside, summoning it. It flew towards him in a cloud of paper, and he snatched it from the air. He repeated the spell with the memories, and they jumped to his hand.

"Potter, what are you doing?" McGonagall demanded. He looked at her apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Professor. Dumbledore's orders. Practically his last words…"

She looked at him blankly. "Oh. Oh, I see…"

There was an explosion deep within the castle, shaking them where they stood. Everyone in the room instantly drew their respective weapons, fire flickering over Ridcully's fingertips, and light gleaming from the veritable forest of swords that had suddenly appeared.

"Oh for gods' sake," the stone faced man Ridcully had called Vimes swore. "What now? Mustrum, this is really taking the piss, you know that?"

"Sorry, Sam," Ridcully apologised. "It's not usually this frantic."

Harry checked the sword of Gryffindor at his waist, drawing only his wand. Chances were he wouldn't be using the blade that much. He strode to the window, looking out with a grim expression. Flames flickered on a fourth floor window, and he turned to McGonagall.

"Fourth floor. There's a fire."

Before she could say anything, a wizard ran into one of the portraits above the desk, panting heavily. "Albus! Albus, it's Death Eaters" He looked down at them in confusion. "Where's Albus?"

"Not now, Severian," McGonagall said impatiently. "How many Death Eaters?"

"Right…twenty, at least," the wizard informed them. "They're on the fourth floor, they're just blowing things up!"

"I see. Potter, we must – Potter?"

But Harry was nowhere to be seen.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Harry prowled through the twisting corridors of the castle, his wand ready for anything. He made no attempt to conceal his presence; he wanted to attack, to hurt the people who had dared to attack the place he called home, more than anywhere else in the world, who had dared to endanger his friends. As he arrived on the fifth floor, he heard the sounds of spell-fire, and he tensed up, ready to duel. He looked around the corner of the corridor.

Marlinspike was duelling an anonymous figure in black robes and white skull mask. The deadly green light of the Killing Curse flashed past the former Auror, impacting against the wall with a bang and a shower of stone chips. Marlinspike barely reacted, casting his own spell; a bolt of lightning zapped from his wand, and struck the Death Eater in the chest. He yelled in pain, disappearing over the stair rail as the force threw him backwards. Harry stepped round the corner, and Marlinspike whirled, aiming his wand at his student. His eyes narrowed.

"Potter? Prove yourself!" he barked, suspiciously. Harry sighed.

"The first time we met, I hit you with a Sonic Curse. Good enough?"

Marlinspike nodded grudgingly. "It'll do. I – "

"You probably killed that Death Eater you threw over the stairs; that puts you on my side, I'd say," Harry remarked. Marlinspike smiled grimly, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Death Eaters, no idea how many. Where's Dumbledore?"

"There's twenty of them at least, so I'm told." Harry looked at the stairs, and amended his statement. "Nineteen, maybe…" He looked back at Marlinspike. "Dumbledore's dead."

The former Auror swore, foully. "How? I didn't think they'd got that far!"

Harry shook his head. "Earlier, not here. Long story, and now doesn't really seem the time. Later."

"Agreed. Any sign of them further up?"

"No. The explosion was on the fourth floor though," Harry told him.

"Then let's go."

They both walked further downwards. The Death Eater Marlinspike had dispatched was not on the floor below; Harry wondered whether he had fallen further down, or if he had survived and scurried off somewhere. There was a scream from a few corridors away, and they broke into a run.

Three students and Flitwick were fending off a group of Death Eaters. Flitwick's wand was a blur of motion, little balls of light flying around him. He thrust the students behind him as the torches hung on the wall exploded, flames arcing towards them. Flitwick twirled his wand, and the balls of light soared to the ceiling; the flames were caught in a gust of wind, spiralling back at the Death Eaters in a vortex of fire. Another swipe, and the balls of light cascaded after the column of fire. Although the Death Eaters were smart enough to dodge the fire, they couldn't avoid the orbs. They were sent floating into the air, paralyzed and spinning gently.

Marlinspike applauded softly, and Flitwick whirled round, wand raised. He breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of them.

"Thank Merlin, I thought there were more of them. How did they get in?"

"Let's just make sure they don't get any further," Harry said. Flitwick stared at him, clearly surprised by the authoritative manner in which he had spoken, but he didn't disagree.

"Filius, get them back to their common room, then get back down here. Harry and I will make a start on the rest of them, ok?"

Flitwick nodded, and hurried off with the students, still clutching his wand. Marlinspike watched them go, a hint of nervousness on his face. When he realised Harry was watching him, he quickly removed all trace of expression, putting the emotionless mask back on. He hurried off down the corridor, beckoning Harry after him. They jogged along in silence for several tense moments, expecting Death Eaters to appear with every step.

They just didn't expect them to come through a wall.

The explosion tore them from their feet, and Harry slammed painfully into the opposite wall. His wand went flying, and he scrabbled for it.

"Clumsy, Potter!"

He looked up as a vaguely familiar figure leapt at him, snarling like some sort of wild animal, his arms outstretched. Harry's fingertips touched his wand, and he whirled it up as fast as he could, forcing his will through it. It bucked in his hand, and a bolt of pale red light erupted from the tip, striking his attacker in the chest. It barely slowed him. He landed in a crouch over Harry, drool dripping from his jaws, and his head darted down as if to bite Harry. Repulsed, Harry pressed his wand between the man's ribs: this time, his spell blew him straight up into the ceiling. He hit the stone hard enough that Harry could hear the crack of bones, before falling to the floor.

Thinking that was the end of it, Harry turned away to see Marlinspike duelling three Death Eaters simultaneously. Looking at them made Harry realise something; the man who attacked him hadn't been wearing a mask. He looked over his shoulder, just as the burly man grappled him once more. He recognised him now: Fenrir Greyback. The realisation spurred him onto greater efforts, panic beginning to set in. As Greyback opened his mouth once more – could a werewolf infect you in human form? – Harry head-butted him. He felt something crack under the force of his blow, and Greyback howled, jumping back with a swipe at Harry's face. He rattled Harry's glasses, but little else. Once more though, Harry found himself wandless. Standing, he drew the Sword of Gryffindor, and lunged at Greyback. The goblin-forged blade went straight through the meat of the man's thigh, eliciting another furious roar of pain: Harry answered it by closing in to introduce his knee to Greyback's 'tonker'. As the werewolf sank to the floor, Harry clubbed him round the head with the hilt of the Sword, knocking him unconscious.

Grabbing his wand from where it had fallen, Harry surveyed the scene. Behind him, Marlinspike was still duelling the three Death Eaters, in a dizzying display of defensive and offensive magic. One of them moved to flank him from the rear, and Harry muttered quietly, working a Transfiguration on the floor. Stone moved like water, and the slab split, rising on either side of the unfortunate Death Eater, before enveloping him in molten stone, pulling him down into the floor to his waist, his wand arm encased. He started to move to help Marlinspike with the other two, but a whimper distracted him. He turned to face the hole in the wall.

Draco Malfoy stood there, shock plastered all over his pale face.

The blond boy looked tired, Harry realised. Not just sleepy; this was a soul deep weariness. But when his eyes met Harry's, he paled even further, and dragged up the energy to run, as if his life depended on it.

Harry sprinted after him, snapping off hexes as he ran, but never quite managing to hit the other boy. Somewhere along the line, Draco had learnt to duck and dive with the best of them. Cohen would have been proud. The Slytherin practically threw himself around a corner, and Harry slowed, not lost enough to anger to miss an obvious opportunity for a trap. As he approached the corner, he threw himself into a sidelong slide, drawing his wand in one swift motion.

Sure enough, a bolt of light shot through the air where his head would have been; Draco gaped as he realised he had missed. As he turned to run again, Harry clipped his feet with a Sticking Charm, and he fell to the floor with a thud. Teeth bared, Harry prowled towards him.

"What did you do, Malfoy?"

"I didn't – I had to!" Draco stammered, turning to face Harry. "They didn't give me any choice!"

"There's always a choice, you pathetic little _boy_!" Harry shouted, and he lashed his wand down viciously. A curse exploded against the stone by Draco's face, scattering him with little fragments. He flinched, and shuffled backwards. "How did you let them in? How many are there? What do they want?" Harry barked.

"I…" Draco let out a frightened sob. "The Room of Requirement. There's a cabinet there, you can travel through it if you know where the companion to it is. I found out, mended it. Dawlish…the Auror…he was my contact, told me that Vol – the Dark Lord had moved his plans forward. I don't know why, I swear. There's about twenty of them."

Harry considered this in silence, his mind working furiously. Twenty Death Eaters: well, maybe fifteen or so now, depending on how Marlinspike was coping. It could be worse, and if they needed to get to the Room of Requirement to get back…there was still time to settle this.

"What are they doing here? Are they after someone? Trying to take the castle?"

Draco shook his head. "The original plan was that…that they'd distract people while I killed Dumbledore."

Harry laughed bitterly. "You're a little too late there, Malfoy. Not that you could have done it anyway. You're not that good."

Draco's eyes narrowed in confusion, and a touch of resentment, but he didn't question Harry's words. "They came tonight specifically because Dumbledore wasn't going to be here. They're looking for something, I think. Something valuable to the Dark Lord."

"What could he possibly have in Hogwarts that was val…" Harry trailed off. They had destroyed a piece of Voldemort's soul not too long ago, and suddenly there was an attack on Hogwarts? That was far too convenient to be a co-incidence. Could Voldemort be aware of what happened to his Horcruxes? Perhaps he thought Dumbledore might have located more, and retrieved them.

Or maybe…maybe he had left one here?

"What is it, Malfoy?" Harry said, in menacing tones. Draco shook his head once more.

"I don't know, I swear. I was just helping them! Bellatrix, she knows. She's looking for it!"

Bellatrix Lestrange. Harry's blood ran cold with hatred. He wouldn't get another chance to take her down anytime soon. "And where is she?"

"Still in the Room of Requirement," Draco said nervously.

There was another explosion from behind them. Harry whirled round, and instantly swore to himself. It was too late; Draco cursed him in the back, and he was thrown across the corridor. He fell to the floor, stars spinning in front of his face. By the time he could see properly again, Draco was gone. Swearing loudly and foully, Harry heaved himself to his feet, and looked over the bannister he was leaning against. On the floor below them, the troll that had killed the shack-snake was reloading his vast crossbow, illuminated by dancing flames along the wall. A Death Eater was firing curses at it, and finding out just how difficult it was to hurt something made of stone. Most of the spells seemed not to affect the troll – Detritus? – at all, judging by the patience he was demonstrating. He raised the crossbow to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. There was a screech of exploding wood and metal, and the arrows exploded into burning shards. By all rights, the Death Eater should have been reduced to a bloody smear on the ground, but magic prevailed; the Death Eater swirled his wand, and the shards stopped in mid-air, dancing around him like fireflies. Another flick of his wand, and they shot out in every direction. A few nearly clipped Harry, even so far above. Before the troll could do anything though, a large wolf tackled the Death Eater to the floor, jaws snapping at him.

Shaking his head, Harry turned around. Draco hadn't gone past him, and was in all likelihood heading to the Room of Requirement to warn Bellatrix. Harry set off, his wand in one hand and the Sword in the other. Voldemort had certainly made one Horcrux while he was still a student – the diary that had ended up possessing Ginny – so it wasn't impossible that he had made another, and hidden it in the castle. The Room of Requirement would have seemed the perfect hiding place. A room you couldn't find unless you knew it existed, and knew the specific trick of opening it. Even then, you would have to know precisely how to locate the exact form of the room that Voldemort had chosen, even if such a thing were possible.

He caught up with Draco on the sixth floor, seeing him sprinting down a corridor. He hurled a hex at the fleeing Slytherin's back, but Draco must have heard him; it bounced off a hastily raised Shield. This time, Draco didn't bother cursing him back. He whirled his wand through a complex motion, and the flames on the torches hanging down the corridor billowed in a sudden wind. Unsettled, Harry slowed, raising his wand uncertainly. All of a sudden, the flames expanded, swooping towards each other and merging into one sea of flame. Draco was just barely visible through the swirling fire, and he moved his wand again; the burning wall moved towards Harry.

His eyes widening, he tapped his head with his wand. A rush of coolness flowed down his body, and as it reached his toes he extended his wand arm, casting the strongest Shield Charm he could manage. The flames cascaded over the shield, licking at his body but not burning him. His charm had worked, and he grinned to himself. It wouldn't last forever though, and he set off again, charging through the flames after Draco. The spell gave out just as he burst out the other side, and the end of his cloak caught fire. Stamping the flames out, he set off up another flight of stairs.

Draco was disappearing through the door of the Room of Requirement. Knowing that he would be protected inside, Harry conjured a block of stone, sending it flying towards the door. It wedged in between the doorframe and the door, and he leapt through the gap, brandishing both wand and Sword.

Inside, Draco was panting from his efforts, and was flanked by both Crabbe and Goyle. Behind them stood Bellatrix Lestrange, wand raised and her expression manic.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't ickle baby Potter!" she said in sing-song tones. She looked him up and down, and a predatory smile flashed across her lips. "Not so lickle now though, are you? Look like you've learnt to play…"


	30. The firestruck towers

Chapter 30 – The fire-struck towers

Minerva McGonagall, as Acting Headmistress of Hogwarts, had centred the castle's defence around the Great Hall. The students of the Hufflepuff House were gathered at one end, as far from the doors as possible. Outside, Professors Sprout and Sinestra guarded the Entrance Hall, assisted by a pair of Aurors. The other Aurors had formed into teams, each led by a Hogwarts teacher, to counter-attack the invading Death Eaters. McGonagall remained in the Great Hall, surrounded by a ring of chairs. On each chair there stood a painting. Through their inhabitants, who were able to flit instantly between their other portraits around the school, she co-ordinated her forces.

"Professor Slughorn and his students have driven them out of the dungeons," said Phineaus Nigellus smugly, "He's coming to you now with my House."

"Thank you, Phineaus. Where are those Death Eaters heading?" McGonagall asked.

"Towards the north wing, the last time I saw them."

"Henrietta," said McGonagall, turning to address a plump witch wearing huge spectacles, "Warn Professor Vector: a group of Death Eaters are coming up from the dungeons. They may try to join up with the group near the Trophy Room." The plump witch nodded and disappeared out of the side of her frame.

There was a flash of silver. McGonagall looked up and saw a kestrel Patronus swooping towards her.

"I've reached Gryffindor Tower," the kestrel said in Professor Marlinspike's voice, "Proudfoot's been injured. The Death Eaters control the main staircase. There's no way down." The kestrel dissolved in a shower of silver stars.

"Sir Nicholas!" McGonagall called to one of the ghosts drifting anxiously around the hall, "Professor Marlinspike needs to bring Gryffindor House down by the backstairs. Take another ghost and guide them."

"At once," said Sir Nicholas with a bow that nearly dislodging his head. He solicited the help of a roughish looking knight in armour. Together they vanished through the back wall of the Hall.

The doors opened. McGonagall turned, wand ready in her hand, but it was only a trio of Aurors. They were led by a man she hardly recognised: Brutus Balfour, a recent addition to the garrison at Hogwarts.

"Professor, I have urgent news," said Balfour. He was a huge man, more than a head taller than McGonagall, with a lantern jaw and short, bristly hair.

"I believe there are Death Eaters out in the grounds," he continued, "We spotted some people moving near the Forest from the Astronomy Tower. I'm going to investigate."

"Impossible," said McGonagall, shaking her head, "We need every witch and wizard we have. We've been outmanoeuvred as it is; we can't let ourselves be outnumbered."

"Professor," said Balfour gravely, "If the enemy gets between the castle and the gates the students will be trapped. We must keep our escape route clear."

This seemed wise to McGonagall, though she hated to lose three Aurors. "Very well," she said, "Search the grounds, but hurry back. We still need you here."

"I understand," said Balfour. He and the two other Aurors departed, almost colliding with a bloodied and bruised Professor Slughorn as he led Slytherin House into the Great Hall. Several of the more senior students were also injured. These were turned over to the care of Madam Pomfrey and Agnes Nitt while the other students mingled with the Hufflepuffs. There was little conversation. Fear and confusion subdued even House rivalry.

Behind the Slytherins came an irate looking man in battered armour. He had a crossbow in his hand and a sword at his side. Behind him followed an equally battered, equally strange band: a tall young man with red hair, a golden wolf, a dwarf and a lumbering stone troll.

"You!" the leader said, marching towards McGonagall, "Tell me what's going on here _right __now_, or I swear by any god who happens to be listening that I will arrest _every _witch, wizard and… and _thing _in here!"

"And just who are you?" demanded McGonagall, fixing the newcomer with her most authoritative stare. The man flinched as if he had been slapped.

"Commander Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch," he said, stunned.

"Watch, eh? So you're a police force?"

"Y-yes. I mean, yes we are," Vimes recovered himself, "And we want to know—"

"Commander Vimes, there are nearly three hundred children in this castle. A gang of ruthless murderers is, at this very moment –"

"Professor McGonagall!" a pretty young witch with long golden hair had appeared in an empty picture frame. The Watch stared with a mixture of astonishment and the eternal suspicion of policemen everywhere as McGonagall conversed with the painting.

"What is it Clarissa?"

"Flitwick is dead."

McGonagall felt as if her stomach had frozen within her.

"Go on," she said. There were no tears, not now. There was too much to be done. Tears would come later.

"A group of Death Eaters tried to get into Ravenclaw Tower," the portrait explained in a hushed, melancholy voice, "There was a big fight on the stairs. I think he killed one but he was betrayed. The Auror… Dawlish? He tried to jinx him when his back was turned. Flitwick blasted him out of a window. He must be dead now: it's a six storey drop. But Flitwick let his guard down. He was hit by a Killing Curse."

"And the students?" said McGonagall. The question was hard to get out, as if her throat was trying to close up.

"The Tower has sealed itself. There is no way in or out."

"They must be rescued," said McGonagall grimly, "Commander Vimes?"

"Professor?"

"These children must be taken to safety," McGonagall gestured to the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, "There is a village beyond the front gates. Can you and your men escort them there?"

Their eyes met; iron will against iron will. Like recognised like. Vimes's jaw clenched. He nodded.

"And the ones in the tower?"

McGonagall shook her head. "The Death Eaters are on the stairs. You'll never get through."

"You're wizards, aren't you? Haven't you got broomsticks or something you could use?"

"Not enough for nearly a hundred... Wait. Filch!"

The school caretaker scurried over from where he had been slouched in a corner, Mrs Norris cradled in his arms. "Yes, Professor?" he said, staring with open hostility at the Watch.

"Do you remember that exchange programme the school took part in, about eight years ago? Where did you put the carpets they gave us?"

Filch scratched his ill-shaven chin.

"Err… Somewhere on the first floor, I think. They wouldn't fly right in the rain – got too soggy."

"Fetch them," McGonagall ordered, "Commander, you and Professor Sinastra can use the carpets to ferry the Ravenclaws off the tower."

"Ye gods, flying carpets…" Vimes muttered, "What next?"

* * *

In the Room of Requirement, Harry and Bellatrix pointed their wands at one another. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle stood to one side, ignored.

"What are you doing here?" said Harry.

"I am on a mission from the Dark Lord," Bellatrix replied, lips pulling back from her teeth in a mirthless grin, "I alone remained faithful to his orders. Those fools,they ran off: to make sport with the mudbloods. I alone stayed, to carry out my master's will."

"So he's sent you to look for his horcrux," said Harry, playing for time. He might have been tempted to fight if it was just Bellatrix but he knew he could not take on four opponents at once, even if two of them were Crabbe and Goyle.

"What did you say?" Bellatrix's eyes narrowed.

"You mean he didn't tell you?" said Harry, goading her in the hope that she would reveal what the horcrux was, "I thought Voldemort told you everything?"

"_Silence!__" _Bellatrix shrieked. A jet of green light flew from her wand. Harry dived behind the nearest piece of cover; a large wooden cabinet. Bellatrix hurled another spell at him. Harry leapt sideways, behind a tottering stack of old desks. Bellatrix's curse struck the cabinet, which burst into flames.

"What's the matter?" Harry called, moving around the piles of forgotten junk, "Is Voldemort keeping secrets from you? Doesn't he trust you?"

"You will not speak his name!" More spells soared through the air, setting fire to various objects, but Bellatrix was casting at random and missed Harry.

"We'll get him," he heard Crabbe say.

"No!" said Bellatrix, "I'll do it. You two keep searching."

"But it ain't here…"

"It _is _here. The Dark Lord said it would be here!"

"We've looked all over," said Goyle, "An' we ain't found no diadem."

"_Silence_!" cried Bellatrix. Harry heard a strangled, gurgling cry from somewhere near the door. He leapt out of cover and saw Bellatrix standing over Goyle's body, a crimson gash across his throat. Crabbe bellowed and cast a Stunning Spell at her. She deflected it and retaliated with the Killing Curse. Crabbe's body toppled backwards, dislodged a heap of textbooks and was buried in the ensuing landslide. Draco screamed and disappeared through the open door.

"I cannot fail…" Bellatrix muttered, "Not again… He will not forgive. Never forgives; never forgets. _I __cannot __fail!__" _

She raised her wand and shot a stream of fire towards Harry. He pushed it aside with a Shield Charm and attempted to disarm her but the spell was simply absorbed by the flames. The stream of fire hit a stack of worm-ridden chairs, split in two and raced on. Harry tried to douse it with a jet of water but it dissolved into mist. The flames continued to divide, burning up more and more of the Room of Requirement. Bellatrix stood in the centre, laughing maniacally.

Harry ran for the door, pursued by two fingers of the greater fire. He plunged into the corridor, the fire close behind. He did not have time to turn and shut the door. Bellatrix followed at a leisurely pace, seemingly impervious to the inferno that surrounded her.

"Death!" she cried, her voice magically amplified so that it filled every corridor and echoed through every room in the castle, "Death to the Mudbloods! Death to the blood-traitors! Death to Albus Dumbledore! Death to his school! Death to all who oppose the Dark Lord! _D-e-a-t-h!__"_

Harry risked a glance back and immediately wished he had not. The fire that surrounded Bellatrix had taken on shapes; leering faces, sharp claws, wings and serpent's tails, as if the very demons of hell followed in her wake. The flaming creatures burst through every door, shattered every window, consumed every tapestry, as Bellatrix laughed joyfully.

Harry ran on, the heat of the flames scorching the back of his legs. Ahead was the main staircase. Three masked Death Eaters were crouched at the balustrade, popping up occasionally to cast spells at some defenders on a lower floor. They heard Harry approach, turned to curse him and saw what came behind him. For a moment they hesitated, and then they plunged down the stairs, heedless of the spells coming from below.

Harry did not follow. He vaulted the balustrade and plummeted down the stairwell. A well-timed Cushioning Charm broke his fall. Moments later he was in the Entrance Hall.

"It's me, Harry!" he cried, flourishing his sword at Professor Sprout and the two Aurors.

"Potter…?" said Professor Sprout, looking bewildered, "But what…?"

"No time," Harry gasped, "Run… Bellatrix LeStrange… Burning everything. _Run!__"_

Shouts and cries of alarm could be heard from the main staircase. Two Aurors appeared. They sprinted across the hall and out the front doors, yelling about fire and insane witches. Harry could hear the roar of the flames from the upper floors. It was getting closer.

"Get out!" he shouted to the others, "Get everybody out, _now._"

Professor Sprout turned and threw open the doors to the Great Hall. It was empty except for a few ghosts and Professor McGonagall, still standing in her circle of paintings.

"Professor!" Harry called, "You've got to get outside. Bellatrix LeStrange is upstairs. She's gone completely mad. She's burning everything. I couldn't stop her."

"Very well," said McGonagall, business-like and unflappable as ever. She and Harry returned to the Entrance Hall. It was in chaos. Death Eaters, staff and Aurors alike were scrambling for the door, all thoughts of battle temporarily forgotten. The fire was very close now, bellowing in Harry's ears.

Bellatrix appeared at the top of the stairs, proud and terrible in her insanity. "Die, mudbloods!" she screamed, conjuring fresh fire on her wand to fall indiscriminately on the people below.

"No!" a voice cried. Harry was astonished to see Filch climbing the rubble-strewn stairs.

"Pathetic Squib," Bellatrix sneered.

"You filthy bitch!" Filch snarled, "How dare you destroy _my __school?__" _He seized a lump of broken stone and hurled himself at Bellatrix. A jet of green light shot from her wand and struck Filch in midflight. His body tumbled back down the stairs. Bellatrix followed it as the first tongues of fire licked at the topmost step. Harry ran for the door.

He was one of the last out. On the lawn he turned back and knew that Hogwarts was lost. Flames billowed from the windows and crowned every turret with rubies. The area before the castle was a scene of shadowy nightmare lit by baleful red light. Robed figures were running in all directions but in the darkness Harry could not tell who were Death Eaters and who were not. There was the occasional flash of spell casting here and there as small knots of figures closed to fight then separated again. A few bodies lay on the lawn, sad little black lumps, but he could not tell if they were dead or merely hurt.

"They're heading for the Quidditch pitch!" a voice cried. Harry turned to look. A small group had broken away from the mass and were indeed running towards the pitch.

"Stand back!" boomed the voice of Archchancellor Ridcully.

A larger, portlier group of figures moved towards the pitch.

"Right chaps, on three! One… two… _three!_"

With a blast like an artillery battery the university faculty sent a cluster of fireballs hurtling through the air. They passed over the heads of the Death Eaters and exploded among the spectator stands. Wood and canvas caught light. In moments the whole pitch was in flames.

Harry paused to collect his thoughts. The Death Eaters had failed to retrieve the horcrux, that was certain. Now they were trying to escape. They could not go back through the cabinet or fly out on brooms. If they were going to Apparate they would have to get beyond the ward stones the Ministry had erected around Hogwarts. That meant going past Hogsmeade. If Harry wanted to catch any of them then he had to get to the main gate. Sword and wand still in hand, he set off into the darkness.

* * *

"The oaf's not here," hissed MacNair, prodding at the huge bed.

"Good," replied Gibbon, removing his mask with a groan, "What the hell happened back there?"

"Keep your voice down," said MacNair sharply, "They could be right outside!" He moved to the window and peeped cautiously over the sill. It was very dark outside. People flitted in and out of sight; black shadows briefly silhouetted against the flames.

"It was LeStrange," he whispered, not taking his eyes from the window, "Finally lost it. I think I saw Dolohov stun her outside the front door. Greyback picked her up. They're heading for the gates."

"Shouldn't we be followin' them?" said Gibbon.

"Don't you think the Aurors might have left a guard there? They're gonna get themselves caught – trapped between the castle and the gate. Nah, we'll lie low here," he glanced around the hut, "Slip over the wall when things have died down."

"Oh. Right," shrugged Gibbon, one of life's followers. The two Death Eaters crouched silently in the darkness, listening to the muffled sounds of battle outside.

"Did you hear that?" said Gibbon.

"Quiet!" growled MacNair.

"I said did you hear that? Somethin' moving on the sideboard?"

"It's nothin'. You're imaging it."

There was silence in the hut again. Then something dropped to the floor with a loud clang.

"_Lumos,__" _squeaked Gibbon. For a moment the inside of the hut shone with a pale light.

"Put it out, you idiot!" said MacNair, knocking the wand from Gibbon's hand, "You want to bring them all in here with your light show?"

A shelf full of books slid to the floor. Gibbon and MacNair shot upright.

"There _is _something in here!"

"It's probably just a rat…"

A chair beside Gibbon was overturned. He gave a yell of surprise and stumbled backwards into MacNair.

"It's over by the coal scuttle!" said Gibbon

"Out of the way, idiot," said MacNair, drawing his wand, "I'll get it."

MacNair approached the coal scuttle. Something was definitely stirring in the space between it and the oversized armchair.

"Alright you little bastard," growled MacNair, "Let's be havin' you."

"Raaawwwwrrrr," came the reply. With a banshee-like shriek, something small and furry leapt onto MacNair's face.

Outside, Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax leant against the locked door. They listened to the banging, crashing and gibbering screams coming from within the hut. Nanny lit her pipe.

"Nice evenin' for it," she said. Behind her, fingernails scrabbled at the door.

"For what?" replied Granny. The fingernails ceased their efforts to burrow through the wood.

"Not bein' in there, fer one," said Nanny cheerfully.

* * *

"Harry?"

"Ron! Hermione!"

The three friends embraced.

"What are you doing here? Why've you got a sword? _Again?_"

"What's happened to Hogwarts?"

They had met on the road just outside the front gates. The gates themselves had been blasted apart. Pieces of twisted ironwork lay all over the road.

"I'll explain later," said Harry, "What are you guys doing here?"

"When the Death Eaters attacked they sent all the students down to Hogsmeade," explained Ron, "We wanted to stay and fight but they wouldn't let us."

"But it's bedlam down in the village," said Hermione, "It wasn't difficult to slip away."

"Are the others safe?" asked Harry.

"Oh yeah," said Ron, "Half the Order's down there right now organising portkeys for everybody. And more people are turning up: Ministry types."

"Harry what's _happening_? We thought Hogwarts was on fire!" said Hermione anxiously.

"It is," replied Harry, "Bellatrix LeStrange burned it. The rest of them ran off. You didn't see them on the way up?"

"Nah," Ron shook his head.

"And I doubt they'd go through Hogsmeade if it's crawling with Ministry people," said Harry, thinking out loud.

"But where else could they go?" said Hermione, "There's nothing but forest and mountains for miles…"

"There's the train station," suggested Ron. Harry shook his head.

"No, they wouldn't." The three friends exchanged worried looks.

"I was just taken down to Hogsmeade by a giant stone… thing carrying some sort of siege engine," said Ron, "I'm willing to believe anything."

The three friends turned left and began to follow the road that ran round the edge of the Hogwarts grounds towards the train station. They had been walking for only a few minutes when they heard hoof beats behind them. Turning, they saw five horsemen approaching at a canter. As they drew closer Harry recognised the Silver Horde, each one mounted on a white stallion of unearthly grace and beauty.

"Wotcha, lad," said Cohen cheerfully as reined up, "Been lookin' for you all over! Glad to see you've mastered the art of not dying. What are you doin' out here?"

"We think the Death Eaters are heading for the train station," explained Harry, "Can you give us a lift?"

"Sure thing," said Cohen, "Hop up. Although of course a true hero can always find a good steed when he needs one…"

"I once rescued someone from a tower by flying up on the back of a hippogriff," said Harry, climbing up behind Cohen, "Does that count?" Ron sat behind Boy Willie and Hermione, despite a rather graphic invitation from Truckle, behind Mad Hamish.

"Very nice," said Cohen appreciatively, "I tried to catch a hippogriff once. Talk about being crapped on from a great height…"

Cohen dug his heels in and the stallion leapt forward. The Horde galloped down the road, with Harry and his friends clinging determinedly to the saddles. Trees and rocks passed by in a blur. The tiny platform lay ahead. On the line, and already gathering speed, was the Hogwarts Express. The engine's scarlet body looked dull in the light of the distant fire.

"Hurry!" shouted Harry. The horses seemed fast but he doubted that even a barbarian hero's steed could outrun a steam engine. They reached the bottom of the road and turned onto the verge beside the railway track. The rearmost of the Express's six coaches was only a few hundred yards ahead.

"Blast it!" Ron yelled at Harry, the closest of the three wizards.

"No… can't!" cried Hermione, some of her words lost beneath the wind and the rumble of the train, "… protected…wards…In _Hog__… __A __History!__"_

"We'll have to board it," Harry said to Cohen.

"No problem!"

The pace of the horses increased. Harry had ridden centaurs, a hippogriff and even a thestral but nothing compared to the speed at which these creatures now ran. He clutched at the saddle until his fingers ached.

The back of the Express came steadily closer. A figure in dark robes leant out of a carriage window. A jet of burning yellow light shot from the figure's wand, towards the riders.

"Keep going!" Harry yelled, thrusting his wand over Cohen's shoulder and casting a Shield Charm. The Death Eater's spell exploded against it in a shower of yellow sparks but the horse plunged heedlessly on, not breaking its stride.

"Get ready to jump," said Cohen. The train was less than a hundred yards ahead. Harry pocketed his wand. The footplate before the backdoor was very narrow. There was no way he could land on it. His only hope was to fling himself at the door and into the carriage itself.

Harry was just about to let go of the saddle when the whole train jumped ten feet into the air, leaving him staring along the empty tracks.

"What the bloody hell?" he heard Ron cry as the train, engine first, began to climb steadily into the starless night's sky.

Hermione tried to reply but all Harry heard was: "… _Hogwarts: __A __History__…"_

"Oh bollocks to _Hogwarts: __A__… __ing __History!__" _Ron shouted back.

"Nice trick," said Cohen, his diamond teeth flashing in the dark, "But we know it too. _After__ '__em, __lads!__"_

Smoothly, without missing a single step, the Horde's steeds rose into the air to pursue the Hogwarts express. It was quite the smoothest flight Harry had ever experienced, apart from a broomstick. Riding Buckbeak and the thestrals had been uncomfortable; very jerky and unstable. These horses could still have been on the ground for all the different it made to their progress. Their hooves pawed at thin air but they flew like five shooting stars, straight towards the train.

"Jump for it, lad!" shouted Cohen as the gap with the carriage closed. Harry did a stupid thing and glanced down. He was not afraid of heights, no good Quidditch player could be, but even he felt his stomach turn over at the sight below him. The railway track was a distant ribbon, winding between silver lochs and vast sprawling pines forests. He could see the whole of Hogwarts, with the castle as a burning dot of orange flames.

"Go! I can't get any closer!" said Cohen. Harry took a deep breath and leapt from the saddle. Somewhere behind and below him, Hermione screamed.

For a second he was in the void: Cohen behind him, the train before him, nothing but empty air beneath him. His hands caught the handle of the backdoor. He threw his whole weight against the door but only succeeded in bruising his shoulder. More by luck than skill he was able to hold on, balancing precariously on the footplate. Cursing loudly, he drew his wand and touched the lock:

"_Alohamora__"_

The door remained stubbornly, infuriatingly locked. Harry sighed. This was just one of those days. Placing his wand between his teeth, he grabbed the lip of the carriage roof with both hands. By placing his foot on the handle of the impassable door he was able to heave himself up on to the sloping roof of the train. It was steep but climbable. Returning his wand to his hand, Harry began to crawl along the train.

A head appeared ahead of him in the gap between the third and second carriages. Harry sent a Stunning Spell flying down the train. The head ducked back down. A counter spell came back from somewhere further up the train. Harry deflected it into the air above him. A second and third spell flew down towards him.

A furious exchange of spells broke out along the roof of the train; Harry deflecting or returning the Death Eaters' attacks but unable to move so much as a yard forward. A flock of what appeared to be very angry yellow canaries suddenly flew past Harry's head and up the train. He glanced back and saw a white faced Hermione wriggling along the roof towards him.

"Go!" she hissed, "Ron's right behind me. We'll cover you!"

Harry nodded and set off. Spell and counter-spell flashed above him as the train climbed ever higher. Harry sent a wave of pure force rippling through the air ahead of him. For a moment the spell casting stopped as the Death Eaters all ducked. Harry scrambled to his feet and scurried along the length of the fifth carriage, dropping down into the gap before the fourth carriage just as four jets of green light shot towards him.

Finding the door to the fourth carriage locked Harry peeked back up onto the roof. The Death Eaters seemed to have gathered around the second and first carriages. He and his friends had two whole carriage lengths they would have to fight along, and the train was still climbing. Ahead and above there lay a thick bank of cloud. Once in there they would not be able to see a thing. Should they abandon the chase? Harry shook his head. Cohen would be disgusted if he so much as suggested it.

The image of the ancient hero gave Harry an idea. Pocketing his wand, he drew the sword of Gryffindor. He had almost forgotten that he was wearing it. Clambering up onto the roof, Harry held the sword with both hands and pointed it along the train towards the engine. Jaw firmly set, he focused his magic along the weapon as if it were a wand. The blade glowed yellow, red and then erupted in a stream of flames. With a roar like a thunderclap the figure of a huge lion, made all of fire, emerged from the tip of the sword. It bounded along the train, growing larger and more terrible with every step. Curses and jinx passed harmlessly through it. With a final roar that shook the entire train the lion launched itself onto the roof of the last carriage.

Red flames exploded in every direction. Harry heard screams ahead of him but also from behind. The blast had severed the couplings between the carriages and the engine. Without the engine, the magic that kept its train airborne was gone. As the foremost carriages burned the train turned on its side and dropped into freefall. Harry, one hand still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, scrabbled desperately at the roof of the carriage but found no purchase. He fell backwards into thin air. Twisting around, he saw Ron and Hermione plummeting from the roof of the rearmost carriage.

With a sudden lurch, somebody caught him.

"Nice try, lad," said Cohen, as he helped Harry onto the back of his horse. Harry looked across and saw two of the Horde pluck Hermione and Ron safely out of the air.

"Ten out of ten for effort," Cohen continued, "but not so much for execution." He pointed to the Express engine, which was just about to disappear into the clouds. Harry could clearly see dark robed figures clinging to the side of the tender and the driver's cab.

"Never mind though," said Cohen cheerfully, "Gives us something to do tomorrow, right?"

* * *

Deep in the Forbidden Forest, far from the light of the burning castle, the Auror Brutus Balfour and his two associates removed their Invisibility Cloaks.

"Guard the perimeter," Balfour ordered tersely. He was not concerned about the battle he had abandoned, his mission was of far greater importance, but secrecy had to be maintained. Hogwarts staff or Death Eaters, it did not matter: nobody was to know what happened here. The two other Aurors disappeared into the trees, their wands drawn.

Alone now, Balfour moved cautiously down into the middle of the small hollow. When he reached the centre he raised his wand and sent three pulses of blue light into the air. The signal given, his superior appeared in front of him.

"You have it?" she asked, her Invisibility Cloak folded neatly under one arm.

Balfour held out a small bundle, wrapped in a dark blue cloth. His superior took the bundle and slowly unwrapped it.

"You have done well, Balfour," said Dolores Umbridge, turning Ravenclaw's diadem over in her hands, "Very well indeed."


	31. The Messiest Game

**Chapter 31: The Messiest Game**

As dawn broke, Rufus Scrimgeour surveyed the chaos, his expression grim.

He had long nursed a desire for Wizarding Britain's top job, and although the circumstances under which he had claimed the office had been less than entirely satisfactory, he had been overjoyed to finally pull on the robes of state. Given his experience in the Auror division, he did genuinely feel that he was the best man for the job, in a time of war.

It was at times like this that he harboured darker thoughts, of incompetence and mediocrity.

Dumbledore dead. Hogwarts burnt and uninhabitable. The Hogwarts Express lost, likely forever. His first term of office was unlikely to be portrayed favourably at all in the history books. Although, and he did cheer up slightly at this thought, at least his history probably wouldn't be taught to generations yet unborn by that annoying old fart Binns. If anything would have forced the old ghost to move on at last, it would surely be the devastation of the castle that he had haunted so tenaciously for however many years it was. Every cloud and all that, he supposed.

He heard the crunch of footsteps on ash behind him, and he turned, raising a hand in greeting as he recognised his old protégé, Brutus Balfour. The square jawed Auror had been in the thick of things during the battle, but his skill – and, it must be said, his talent for precise devastation – had seen him through well enough. The Auror saluted as he drew near to Scrimgeour.

"Morning, sir. Hell of an evening."

"So I see," Scrimgeour said, casting his eyes back out over the ruins of the castle. "Doesn't seem possible, does it, Brutus? A thousand years at the centre of our entire culture, and all it took to destroy it was one woman and a single spell."

"We did our best, sir," Balfour started speaking, but Scrimgeour cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"I'm not blaming you, don't worry. Fiendfyre's a bugger to combat when the caster is even slightly in control – I'm bloody glad I wasn't there to see what LeStrange did with it, I can tell you that."

Balfour nodded. "I've never seen anything like it. We still don't know whether she survived or not – no sign of her with the Death Eaters that escaped, and there's no chance of a body being left behind, not from that. If it weren't for the fact that the Potter boy saw her walking through the flames, we'd have marked her down as dead already."

"Hmph," Scrimgeour snorted gloomily. "We should be so lucky, I think. Blasted woman's like a cockroach."

"We'll take her down next time, you can be sure of that," Balfour said with a hint of savage anticipation. "I'm looking forward to handling her personally."

"I've always admired your enthusiasm," Scrimgeour told him with a grin. He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get back down there. I've got to go and talk to the press."

"Yes…there's more to discuss than you realise, Minister." Balfour's expression turned grim as he spoke. Scrimgeour fixed him with a dubious gaze.

"What do you mean?"

"We have reason to believe that there was an inside man for the attack."

"Tell me something I don't know, why don't you?" Scrimgeour retorted with a dismissive snort, turning away from his protégé. "There were probably a couple, going by the damage and the number of Death Eaters that got in."

"Quite possibly," Balfour allowed with a nod of his head. "My team think they've identified one though."

"Oh?" Scrimgeour turned back to Balfour, a hungry look on his face. Having a culprit to throw to the lions would benefit him no end. "Who?"

"Harry Potter."

"Oh for God's sake…" Scrimgeour sighed, rolling his eyes to the heavens. "Somebody always blames Potter, for every single thing that ever goes wrong in the Wizarding World. I thought better of you, Brutus."

"Forgive me, Minister, but look at the facts. Potter was away from the school in the company of Albus Dumbledore and some of those…persons of interest that have been showing up everywhere. We don't know what he was doing, and Dumbledore is now dead. We've no evidence to suggest Death Eaters were active anywhere else yesterday – at the very least, Potter has relevant information and is refusing to co-operate, and we've hauled people in for far less before."

"True," Scrimgeour mused, "But we're talking about Harry Potter here, not some ratty little gutter wizard."

"You said it yourself, there's always someone blaming Potter for something, and we've got legitimate cause to question him if nothing else." A sly smile spread across Balfour's lips. "Just think of the concessions you could get from him in exchange for it all going away."

"Balfour, you've got a devious mind in there, you know that?" Scrimgeour laughed, all but rubbing his hands together with glee. He wasn't convinced that Potter had had anything to do with Dumbledore's death, of course – such a thing was about as likely as Dolores Umbridge going for a bareback ride on a Centaur – but Merlin only knew he would need some popular backing over the next few days. Never let it be said of Rufus Scrimgeour that he was afraid to play dirty when circumstances called for it.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The vials glinted in the early morning sunlight, the silvery grey mist swirling inside them. Harry studied them apprehensively, the hefty wooden casket resting on his knees. Dumbledore's last will and testament, as far as he knew. The pensieve rested in his pocket, an uncomfortable weight in a whole variety of ways. It hadn't been as difficult as he had thought it would be to retrieve them, even with the enormous Auror presence and the destruction wreaked upon the castle. The Headmaster's office had proven remarkably resilient to the flames, although the gargoyle that had stood guard there for as long as Harry could remember had been melted away. Nevertheless, the room had been smoke damaged, the assembled portraits stained and peeling, and some of the furniture crumbling. It had been but the work of moments to unearth the chest in the now rather sad looking cabinet, the various trinkets cracked and faded from the Fiendfyre's residual heat.

Dumbledore himself had been moved early on in the battle, taken to the Hog's Head to be left with Aberforth. Harry couldn't bear to even speculate as to what Dumbledore would have thought of the castle's devastation. He rather thought it would have broken the old man's heart. Perhaps, under the circumstances, his death wasn't entirely bad, if you looked at it from that perspective.

He snorted wryly to himself. He'd never thought of himself as an optimist, especially, and this was a strange time to try and start. He did feel…not better, exactly, but soothed. Fighting back against the Death Eaters had taken a lot out of him, and it felt as if it had drained out a lot if not all of his grief over his mentor's death. Or maybe he was just tired; he honestly couldn't say at this stage.

The silvery mist seemed to beckon to him, sucking his thoughts in, and he tore his gaze away, looking up over the remnants of the Quidditch pitch. That drew a grimace; reluctantly, he stood, accepting that he was unlikely to find a happier vista anywhere within the Hogwarts grounds this morning. Probably not even from Hogsmeade, for that matter. He tapped the chest with his wand, and it shrunk in his hand, reducing itself to pocket size. He wasn't sure precisely what the memories consisted of, but it didn't take a genius to realise that it was probably better to keep them concealed than to display them for anyone to see. Thrusting it inside his robes, he set off to find his friends.

He found them at Hagrid's, the half-giant's hut remarkably undamaged under the circumstances. On the outside, at least. Harry had seen Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg strolling away earlier, Nanny's cat following her with a smug grin. Two Aurors had been clearing up. Ron was leaning against a tree stump, his eyes closed and his expression peaceful. Hermione was curled up against him, snoring gently into his chest. He grinned, not having the heart to wake them, and conjured a blanket with a sweep of his wand, placing it over them. A quick Warming charm on the blanket left them as snug as they could possibly be, under the circumstances. At least _that _little complication seemed to be resolving itself now. It was one less thing to worry about, after all.

Easing the door of Hagrid's hut open, he walked inside, raising an eyebrow at the damage to the hut. There were a few blood spatters, and scratch marks everywhere – which wasn't entirely unusual in Hagrid's hut, in all honesty, but there seemed to be far more than the last time he had visited his friend. With a shrug, he sat down at the table, placing the casket in front of him. He opened it, and placed the Pensieve next to it. He picked a vial at random, and unstoppered it. The mist curled out of the vial, and he tipped it into the Pensieve. He stared at it, wondering what he would find if he placed his head inside.

"Harry?"

He stood up so fast that he could have sworn that he'd Apparated, his wand aimed at the doorway. Lupin was standing there, his eyes now wide with surprise and his hands raised. "Relax, Harry – just me…"

Harry sighed, sheathing his wand and mentally cursing his own jumpy nature. "Sorry, sir. Still a little on edge, I think."

"Clearly," Lupin commented drily. He approached the table, pulling out a chair. "The Minister's looking for you. I told him that we weren't entirely sure where you were though, so you can probably escape for a while."

Harry flashed him a grateful smile, sitting down himself. "Thanks, I really can't be bothered with that right now."

"Quite." Lupin picked up another vial, examining it. "Memories? Whose?"

"I've no idea," Harry told him with a shrug. "Dumbledore told me to grab them when I got back to Hogwarts, before he…" He trailed off, not quite willing to say it out loud just yet.

"I see," Lupin said with a nod of understanding. "Do you know what they're about then? Are they connected to where you went last night?"

"I guess so," Harry said. He cast another look at the decanted memory. "Did he tell you? About the Horcruxes?"

Lupin's brow narrowed into a frown. "I've heard the term, I'm sure, but I couldn't tell you where. What is a Horcrux?"

Harry explained it all to him, concentrating on the key details for now. By the time he had finished, Lupin wore an expression of disgusted horror.

"That…that is the most perverse thing I have ever heard. How could someone do that to themselves?"

"Voldemort's never been a byword for sanity or rational actions," Harry pointed out.

"Well no, I suppose not, but to cut up your soul like that…" Lupin shuddered. "He's even more of a monster than any of us thought. And you think that these memories have more information about the Horcuxes in?"

"I bloody well hope so…" Harry muttered. He looked at the Pensieve with a sigh. Part of him ached to find out the truths that were doubtless – hopefully – contained within the vials, and an equal part was screaming that putting his head inside the silvery mists was an astonishingly bad idea that he might just live to regret. On the other hand, could it possibly be worse than going to talk to the Minister? Regretfully, he scooped the mist back into the vial, replacing it in its holder. He closed the lid of the casket, and handed it to Lupin.

"Look after this for me? I'm not sure the Minister should even see it yet, never mind know what's inside it."

"Of course." Lupin took the casket, tapping it with his wand and placing it in his pocket as it shrank to a more manageable size. "Lead the way."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

They found Scrimgeour standing over a pile of ruined portraits in the middle of the Great Hall. Their frames were cracked, the paint peeling and their inhabitants nowhere to be seen. He was muttering indistinctly to another man, who Harry didn't recognise. The Minister glanced up as Harry and Lupin approached, and his lips curled into a smile.

"Mister Potter, how good of you to join me. A terrible business, just terrible."

Harry nodded, but didn't bother to vocalize a response. His apathetic reaction seemed to satisfy Scrimgeour somehow though. A feral gleam shone, ever so briefly, in his eyes.

"I understand you played quite the crucial role in the battle. It seems we owe you a debt of gratitude! Again…"

Even Scrimgeour's extensive political experience couldn't quite disguise the bitterness in the last word, and Harry pricked up his ears. Was the Minister feeling a touch of resentment over Harry's actions? No matter the personal satisfaction that might bring him, he wasn't fool enough not to recognise that annoying the most powerful man in the country was probably not a good thing to be doing. Not deliberately, at any rate.

"I'd say everyone who took up their wand against the Death Eaters is owed that debt, not just me. If it hadn't been for the Aurors, there certainly wouldn't have been as many survivors."

Behind Scrimgeour, the other man took a step forward, meeting Harry's gaze directly for the first time. "Just doing our job, Mister Potter. Although I will say that it was a pleasure."

"And we thank you for it," Lupin interjected, matching the other man's step forward. "And you are?"

"Balfour. Brutus Balfour."

"I see…" Lupin stepped back, just a barely noticeable inch, and Harry frowned. Lupin was hardly the most aggressive man he had ever met, but he was no coward. His reaction and expression suggested though that Balfour was intimidating him somehow. He couldn't see why; he clearly wasn't someone you wanted to be on opposing sides to, but he was an Auror. He pushed the concern to the back of his mind as Scrimgeour spoke up again.

"Brutus tells me that you were absent from the castle yesterday, Harry. With Professor Dumbledore. I'm sure you'll understand that there are…certain questions that we have to ask."

Harry rolled his eyes. Was that all he wanted? "Yeah, I guess. Shall we go somewhere a little more comfortable?"

"We're wizards, Mister Potter. Everywhere is comfortable, if we wish it so." So saying, Scrimgeour passed his wand in a complicated gesture. Four chairs, a table, and a bottle of what looked like Dwarvish Gin appeared in front of them. Scrimgeour took a seat, and gestured to Harry and Lupin to follow suit. Harry had to admit, as he took his own seat, whatever he might think of Scrimgeour's chosen career, the man had flair.

"So," Scrimgeour said, leaning over the table to get a closer look at Harry. "Let's get started, shall we? Perhaps you could tell us what this little jaunt was all about?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that." It wasn't strictly true: Dumbledore hadn't really said anything about secrecy with regards to the Ministry, but then he had been in charge of a semi-legal vigilante group, and seemed to delight in confounding the Minister's wishes on numerous occasions. The very least honour he could pay the fallen wizard was to continue in a similar vein.

Scrimgeour's expression blackened, and he took a brief moment to collect himself, pouring himself a drink. "Why not?"

"Well, if you'll forgive me saying it, you're quite a high profile target, Minister," Harry pointed out. "If I told you what we'd been up to, and the worst should happen, Voldemort could know every detail of our plan of campaign, and that would never do."

"He's got a point, Minister," Lupin added. On the other side of the table, Balfour folded his arms, looking at Lupin appraisingly. Lupin flashed him a smile that showed more teeth than were probably strictly necessary.

"Your campaign, Harry?" Scrimgeour's expression could loosely have been described as a smile, but it certainly didn't reach his eyes. "The Ministry is leading this fight, not you, and not Dumbledore's precious Order. You have a duty to tell us everything you know!"

"Really? As far as I can see, the Ministry's been doing sod all to stop Voldemort. Certainly nothing effective."

Scrimgeour abruptly slammed his hand down on the table, leaning closer to Harry, his eyes blazing. "What gives you the right to criticise me, boy? You've been consorting with people of – at best – dubious character, people not even from this dimension, and you know something about Dumbledore's death. Give me one good reason I shouldn't have you carted off to Azkaban for questioning right now!"

"You wouldn't dare," Harry breathed. Almost unconsciously, his fingers began to twitch, aching to draw his wand. "It would be political suicide. Not to mention I haven't done anything wrong!"

"I think you forget how fickle the good people of this country can be, Harry," Scrimgeour pointed out with a triumphant smile. He clearly believed that this fact trumped any argument Harry could counter with.

Harry stood up, shooting a look at Lupin to follow suit. "I don't have time for this. It's ridiculous. And I thought you had more integrity than this."

"Potter, we both know I'm the best man for the job, at least now. Maybe if we weren't at war, but now…" Scrimgeour took a deep breath. "I'm not going to allow rogue elements to run around playing havoc with this country, not even you. And if I'm going to keep going as Minister, we need to work together."

"Or you'll make me your scapegoat, I know. Fudge tried that, and look how well it worked out for him." Harry turned his back on the Minister, and began to walk away. As he reached the broken doors to the Hall, Scrimgeour called after him.

"Potter! If you walk out of that door, you will be an enemy of my Ministry. Do you understand?"

Harry did not look back. "Perfectly."


	32. On the road

Chapter 32: On the road

Mouldering leaves crunched slimily under Harry's feet as he moved through the trees. He walked quickly, anxious to shelter from the chill November wind that his invisibility cloak was failing to protect him from. Ahead, hidden in a dell, stood a grubby caravan. Harry scrambled down and knocked on the door.

"Holyhead Harpies rule," he said.

"Chudley Cannons till I die," replied a bored voice from the other side.

"Cannons for the Cup," said Harry, "Come on, it's freezing out here!"

The door swung open.

"I wish you two had picked a more sensible password," muttered Hermione, standing back to let Harry in.

"What would you prefer? Page references from our favourite books?" he said, removing the invisibility cloak.

Hermione scowled. Together they unpacked the shopping Harry had fetched from the nearby village and stuffed it into the caravan's tiny fridge. Ron was snoring gently in his bunk. He spent most of his time asleep these days, when he was not bickering with Hermione.

"Did you find a paper?" she asked Harry when the fridge had been filled. Harry produced a dog eared copy of the _Daily Prophet _from his jacket pocket.

"Nothing special," he said, handing it to her, "Just more about me."

There was a picture of Harry looking uncomfortable on the front page, beneath the headline: 'MINISTRY URGES CITIZENS TO COME FORWARD IN THE HUNT FOR DUMBLEDORE'S KILLER'.

It had been six months since the destruction of Hogwarts; six hard, lonely, frustrating months for Harry and his friends. After the battle, Harry and Hermione had gone to stay with Ron at the Burrow. Less than two days into the visit Kingsley Shacklebolt had sent them a warning: Scrimgeour had dispatched a team of Aurors to bring Harry in for questioning about Dumbledore's death. Harry had had mere minutes to flee. He had been on the run ever since.

His first stop had been Privet Drive, where he picked up the few possessions he had left there. He tried to warn his aunt and uncle to get out of the country before the Death Eaters or the Ministry came for them but he doubted they would heed him. From that time onwards he had not stopped moving, never staying more than three days in the same place. He had considered moving into Grimmauld Place but he suspected that Snape had betrayed the street, if not the house itself, to Voldemort. London was too close to the Ministry anyway, so Harry stuck to remote towns and villages. He stayed in B&Bs or pubs, which rapidly drained his meagre supply of Muggle money. He was afraid to stay in magical establishments or to visit Gringotts to convert his Galleons into pounds, in case his enemies were watching either. His only companions were his Luggage and the Death of Rats, both of whom he had to sneak in and out of his room under the invisibility cloak. This made him oddly nostalgic for his childhood at Privet Drive, which was a novel experience in itself.

Two weeks after his flight from the Burrow Hermione and Ron had caught up with Harry in a village deep in the Welsh Valleys. They brought with them money, some useful equipment and a lot of bad news. Scrimgeour had been ousted from the Ministry, and replaced by Cornelius Fudge. Incompetent and blustering as he was, at least Hogwarts had not been burned down while he was in office. Far from helping Harry's situation, Fudge's return to office had made it much worse. The Ministry declared that Harry had murdered Dumbledore and offered a reward for information leading to his capture. At the same time, several of the more prominent members of the Order had vanished: 'Mad Eye' Moody, Professor McGonagall, Professor Marlinspike and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Mum and Dad reckon they were kidnapped by the Ministry," Ron explained, "But no one has any idea where they've taken them. Officially they're on the run, like you."

"It looks like Fudge is under the Imperius Curse," said Hermione, "He never played nice before but this is much worse. I am sure You-Know-Who is behind it."

Although the Ministry still appeared to be at war with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, their methods and targets were beginning to shift. Anti-Ministry voices were silenced while attacks on Muggles and Muggle-borns grew in both number and violence. The _Prophet _became more and more hysterical about the Death Eater threat, while failing to report on the Ministry's new emergency laws that restricted freedoms of speech, assembly, and movement.

All this time, Harry and his friends continued to hop around the country. They had stolen their caravan from a scrapheap to save on money and to keep as far away from people as possible. Ron grumbled regularly about its size and lack of facilities; magical caravans could contain any number of rooms, including swimming pools and small ornamental gardens, but Hermione was not confident enough to try and enchant the Muggle caravan herself. She had at least succeeded in protecting it from unfriendly eyes and ears, and cast an emergency Apparation charm that would immediately jump the caravan several miles away if they were discovered. Their only magical convenience was the Luggage, which served as wardrobe, laundry, and guard dog all in one. It spent most of the time dozing snugly beneath Harry's bunk. But that apart, their existence was meagre at best. They spent most of their time sneaking into towns to buy food or pouring over Dumbledore's collection of memories.

The Pensieve was currently standing on the caravan's tiny dining table, along with several of the crystal phials and the list of notes that Harry and his friends had compiled about the collection.

"Which one were you looking at?" Harry asked Hermione as they sat down at the table.

"Number nineteen," Hermione sighed, "I keep thinking that there might be something we've missed but... there's nothing."

It had soon become apparent that they would need to make extensive notes when studying the memories: Dumbledore did not seem to have arranged them in any particular order. The list was written in a simple code of Hermione's devising. She had also enchanted the paper to appear as a supermarket receipt to anybody who did not already know its secret.

Compiling the list had not been an easy task. For a start, it was very difficult to date the memories. Some of them were obviously earlier or later but many they simply could not place. The common thread running through them was obvious: the life of Tom Riddle. He appeared in many; as a boy at an orphanage; as a student at Hogwarts; as an adult and as the Dark Lord Voldemort. Some of the memories only mentioned him but some did not even do that. These were the most baffling. They contained people that Harry did not recognise and conversations or events with no apparent bearing on Tom Riddle or his horcruxes. After six months of compiling, studying, and comparing these memories, Harry now knew far more about Voldemort than he had ever wanted but he felt no closer to finding the next horcrux.

Memory number nineteen had proved to be both the most and the least useful in their hunt for the horcruxes. It was the memory of a house elf named Hokey, who had been in the service of a witch named Hephzibah Smith. The memory concerned a visit that the young Tom Riddle paid Hephzibah during his time as an employee at Borgin and Burkes. Riddle seemed particularly interested in acquiring a certain cup owned by Hephzibah, who claimed to have inherited it from her distant ancestor Helga Hufflepuff. Harry and his friends were certain that this cup had become one of Riddle's horcruxes (Harry had a horrible feeling that Riddle had murdered Hephzibah to create it) but the memory was at least twenty years old. It gave no indication what had happened to the cup. They had scoured every other memory for a mention of Hephzibah Smith, Hokey or the cup but found nothing.

"Perhaps if we go in together?" Harry suggested, "Maybe we'll see something we missed last time?"

"Or the time before that?" said Hermione, "Admit it Harry - it's a dead end. If Dumbledore knew any more about that dratted cup then he took it with him when he died."

Harry flushed at this seemingly offhand reference to Dumbledore. He wanted to shout at Hermione to have more respect but Ron's foghorn-like yawn interrupted him.

"Wha' are you two fightin' about?" he asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Nothing," snapped Hermione, "And it's your turn to cook dinner, since you're awake. At last."

Ron muttered something about what Hermione could do with her dinner as he stomped out of the caravan. Harry pulled the list towards him and sat pretending to read it so he did not have to talk to Hermione.

Suddenly someone was banging on the caravan door. Harry and Hermione leapt to their feet, wands drawn.

"Who's there?" Harry called, not moving towards the door.

"It's me!" called Ron.

"Give the password then."

"Just open up you berk!"

"Password first!"

"Holyhead Harpies rule," Ron snarled.

"Chudley Cannons till I die."

"Cannons for the Cup. Now _let me in!" _

Harry flicked his wand and Ron burst into the caravan. He was carrying a pewter mug, caked in mud and autumn leaves.

"I went out for a slash," he explained, "and I saw this, stuffed between the roots of this big tree." He held out the mug. Harry took it gingerly and turned it over in his hands. It looked plain and unremarkable. Someone had scratched a single word on the bottom: 'LeStrange'.

"So?" said Harry.

"Don't you see?" cried Ron, "It's a message! About the horcrux!"

"What horcrux?"

"The one in the memory," said Ron eagerly, "It's a message about Hephzibah Smith's cup – the LeStranges must have it."

"But how? Who?"

"What if it's the Ministry? Or the Death Eaters?" said Hermione nervously, "We should move the caravan."

"No," Harry shook his head, "They'd have attacked the caravan by now, or grabbed Ron when they saw him."

"So who left the cup then?"

"The Order?" suggested Ron.

"I did tell Lupin about the horcruxes," said Harry thoughtfully, "The Order could be investigating them too."

"But we haven't heard from anybody in months," said Hermione, "And why would they leave such a strange clue? I'm not convinced it is the Order. Why didn't they just come and talk to us?"

"You enchanted the caravan," said Ron, "You _know_ no one can find it if they don't know where it is."

"So how _did _someone find us? Suppose it is the Death Eaters. They might be trying to lure us into a trap."

"Maybe," said Harry, "But it's the only lead we've got. And anything is better than sitting in here sharing another tin of beans with you two. I almost bought us a bag of clothes pegs today…"

"You do realise what this means, don't you?" said Hermione, "There's only one place an old family like the LeStranges would keep something that valuable."

"Gringotts," they said in unison.

* * *

Lichfield high street hummed busily with Christmas shoppers. Clouds of steamy breath rose from the crowd, entwining themselves among the strings of garishly coloured lights overheard. It was a clear, crisp November night and many people had taken the opportunity to do their shopping while the rain held off.

Something stirred at the far end of the street. The crowd parted, almost reverently, as a large golden sleigh glided down the centre of the road. It was pulled by six handsome brown reindeer. People cooed at the tiny cloud of snow that hung over sleigh and animals, covering them in a fine white powder. Sitting in the driver's seat, in front of an enormous sack, was Father Christmas, his face almost entirely hidden between his curly white beard and scarlet cap. He waved to the passersby and chortled merrily as they greeted him.

The sleigh slowed to a stop in the very middle of the high street. Father Christmas stood up, raised his arms as if to embrace every person there, then drew back the sack to reveal the sleigh's cargo. The crowd gasped. At first it resembled a lump of red fur. Then it stirred and raised a giant, horned head. Its face was like a man's, covered in leathery red skin. It opened is mouth to yawn, displaying three rows of dagger shaped teeth. The creature stood up, placing its front paws on the front seat of the sleigh. Last, it uncurled its tail. Ten feet long, covered in a carapace the colour of dried blood, and ending in a cluster of foot-long spikes, it curved up over the creature's back like a scorpion's. Father Christmas gave a distinctly mirthless laugh as he vanished into thin air.

For a few seconds the crowd stared, mesmerised by the bizarre creature. Then it turned, as if noticing the people for the first time, and flicked its tail towards a group gathered outside a bookshop. A volley of spikes flew from the tail. Several people fell, the barbs buried deep in their bodies. The bookshop window shattered.

There was instant panic. People stampeded in every direction: some towards the shop doors, others to opposite ends of the street. In the confusion and screams nobody noticed the strangely dressed group emerging from a nearby kebab house.

"Bloody hell! A manticore!" cried Arthur Weasley, "Charlie was right."

"Can you see the Santa?" said Tonks, scanning the crowds for a bright red robe.

"You get the wizard. Leave the monster to us," said Cohen, grinning, "We're experts at this."

"Suits me," said Tonks, "Arthur, try to protect the Muggles."

The group split. The Silver Horde dived straight into the crowd, cackling and brandishing their weapons. Arthur summoned the glass from a department store window and moved it between the manticore and the family it was pursuing. The manticore hurled another cloud of spikes towards them. The glass shattered but the family were unharmed.

Tonks apparated onto the roof of a building across the street and perched there, arm wrapped around a chimney, as she searched the crowd below. She did not think the Death Eater in the Father Christmas costume had fled; they tended to enjoy watching the mayhem they unleashed. As if to confirm her suspicions a dense web of chains suddenly appeared across one end of the street, penning the Muggles in with the manticore.

"Arthur!" Tonks yelled, pointing towards the chains. They both cast Severing Charms at the web, cutting it down the middle. The crowd gave a great cry of relief and surged forward again.

Suddenly a stream of Christmas lights detached itself from the wall and whipped up, wrapping itself around Tonks's wand arm. She tried to pull away but overbalanced. The string of lights pulled her off the roof, sending her headfirst towards the pavement. She twisted in mid-air, conjuring a miniature parachute from the end of her wand. She hit the ground hard but she was not hurt.

As she untangled herself from the now lifeless string of lights, Tonks risked a glance over at the manticore. The Horde were bating it; provoking it to fling its spines at them, dodging aside and then darting forward to attack before it had time grow a fresh batch. Most of the shop windows had been shattered and the brickwork was peppered with red darts, but the Horde were unharmed.

"Tonks, watch out!" Arthur cried. Tonks threw up a Shield Charm just in time to deflect a hex. She turned and fired a Stunning Spell in the direction it had come from, but hit only brickwork. The Santa had apparated further down the street. He was now sprinting towards the rapidly dwindling crowd. Tonks conjured a pair of bolas to try and bring him down but the Santa incinerated them in mid-flight.

Tonks aimed a charm at a post box ahead of the Santa. A stream of envelopes shot out of its mouth like bullets from a machine gun. The Santa deflected the first few with a shield but the envelopes proved persistent. They swarmed around the Santa, bearing him to the ground by their sheer weight.

"Well done," said Arthur, crossing over to her.

"Any casualties?" Tonks asked as she placed the Santa under a Body Bind. Only then did she call off the flying mail.

"Seven Muggles unconscious, a few injured from being trampled in the stampede but nothing too serious. We were lucky it was only a Lesser Manticore. The Greater ones have a deadly poison in their spines. This one only stuns."

"It's still a bastard to fight," said Tonks, "Do you think the old guys will need a – ?"

"You got anywhere I can hang this?" asked Cohen. He had impaled the manticore's head on the end of his sword like a toffee apple on a stick.

"Never mind," said Tonks quickly.

"So who's he?" asked Cohen, indicating the man in the Father Christmas costume. Tonks knelt down and removed his hat and beard. Arthur gave a low whistle.

"Pius Thicknesse," he said, "I had no idea he was a Death Eater."

"Hello Pius," said Tonks cheerfully, bending over so that she could look him in the eyes, "We're taking you to see Granny."


	33. Shell Cottage

**Chapter 33: Shell Cottage**

The caravan landed in the middle of an overgrown patch of gorse, which was unhelpful. Harry poked his head out of the window, looked down, and swore.

"Left a bit!"

"For God's sake," Ron muttered. "Can't we just levitate it?"

"Do you want to climb out in the middle of this?" Harry retorted. "Those branches look sharp, but be my guest…"

"Fine, fine, we'll Apparate. Again. You do realise I revisit my lunch everytime we do this, right? Take it from me, caravan-travel will never catch on."

"You'd be surprised," Harry commented. Before Ron could reply, the caravan vanished with a loud crack. The displaced air was blasted outwards, and the gorse exploded. When the caravan reappeared, it was a mere foot to the left. This time, Hermione's head appeared at the window, preceded by her mass of untamed hair, looking even worse than usual after so long on the road.

"Happy now?" she asked tartly. The door creaked open, not really built for the sort of abuse they had been putting it through, and Harry appeared. He wore a long cloak that shrouded his jeans and hoody, and the Sword of Gryffindor at his belt. He hopped down from the caravan step.

"Much better, yeah," he replied, grinning at his friend. Hermione rolled her eyes and disappeared back inside. A minute or two later, she and Ron had joined Harry outside.

"Are we just leaving this here?" Ron asked. "Bit big to fit in my pocket, even if we shrink it."

"I don't see why not," Hermione said, checking her wand was in her jacket pocket. "Nobody will be able to see it, so who cares?"

"Oh, Hermione, you rebel!" the red head sniped.

"Ok, which way do we go?" Harry interrupted hastily, before Hermione could respond. Weeks spent in such close confinement had done little for the tension between his two friends; there were times when he was afraid to leave them alone, genuinely uncertain whether he would find them naked or bleeding when he returned. This time, Hermione settled for a pointed glare and a huff, before turning way. Ron winked at Harry.

"It's just over that crest," the red head said, pointing towards it. "It's the only building for miles around, I don't think Muggles can come here…"

The trio set off, fighting their way through the thick plantlife covering the ground. It took them a few minutes to reach the crest, but when they reached the top of it, sure enough, they could see their destination. Shell Cottage.

"Little bit…twee, isn't it?" Harry asked dubiously. It really did look like something out of a fairytale, which he supposed was appropriate for the home of a wizard and witch.

"Hey, I've had some really good times here!" Ron declared defensively. "It's brilliant."

"Fair enough," Harry said, unconvinced. "Are we going to be all right, just walking up to it?"

"Hmm. Better let me go first," Ron agreed. "Bill's got a nasty imagination sometimes, but if anything is up it shouldn't react to me. I'm family, after all."

"Off you go then," Hermione told him, still irritated with him. Ron hefted his pack back onto his shoulder, and set off. Whether he had been right about family being able to pass through any defences, or whether there simply weren't any to pass through, Harry couldn't tell. Whatever the case, Ron reached the cottage without incident, and hammered on the door.

It was a minute or two before it opened, and Ron took a step back when it did. Bill stood there, practically jamming his wand into his younger brother's nose. Harry immediately went for his own wand, but Hermione grabbed his arm.

"Wait," she hissed. "It's alright."

Bill said something, and Ron replied. Bill's face broke out in a grin, and he embraced his brother, clapping him on the back. Releasing him, he made a few passes with his wand, and then waved in their direction.

"I think it's safe to approach," Harry said, waving back.

"You can still go first," Hermione offered. Harry rolled his eyes, and made his way towards the cottage.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"It's not going well," Bill said as he sat down, offering steaming mugs of hot chocolate to the trio. They accepted eagerly, gulping the drinks down in one. "We never expected to have to fight the Ministry at the same time, not so soon at least. It really knocked us for six. We're keeping the fight going though!" The red-head raised his hand, touching the scars on his face briefly, almost subconsciously.

"I can believe it," Harry said reassuringly. "We don't get much news, but we hear what we can. It sounds like you're doing a fantastic job – that manticore in Lichfield? Amazing."

Bill smiled slightly. "Thanks. I hope you've got some good news though. We need it."

Harry looked at the others. He wasn't sure proposing a raid on Gringotts really qualified as good news. "Maybe. We've got a clue towards finding one of the Horcruxes. You won't like it though."

"Oh, I'll like it," Bill declared, baring his teeth. "Anything that gets us closer to being rid of that psycho is good news as far as I'm concerned."

"We think one of them is in Gringotts," Harry said. "We want your help to break in and steal it."

Bill stared at him for a long moment. "You're serious about that, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Bugger." Bill sighed, rubbing his face. "I'm not sure there's much I can do…but I'll do what I can, I guess."

"Cheers, Bill. You're the best," Ron said, grinning.

"The stupidest, maybe," his brother muttered. "Which vault, and what are we looking for?"

"A goblet; we think it's in Bellatrix LeStrange's vault," Harry said. "I know that's not much to go on, but we've got a picture of it, and…" he tailed off, realising how unprepared they sounded. To his surprise though, Bill seemed not to be paying attention.

"It was a Horcrux? That'd explain a lot," he said to himself.

"What was that?" Harry asked, leaning forward. Bill looked up and shook his head.

"Sorry, talking to myself. Did you hear about the robbery, a few months back?"

Harry frowned, casting his mind back. Now that Bill mentioned it, he thought it sounded familiar. "There was something odd about it, wasn't there? Apart from it happening at all, I mean."

"Well yeah. The weird thing was that all anybody saw was a crowd of little blue people," Bill explained. "Definitely not human, and no creature I've ever heard of. I even asked Hagrid on the quiet, and he was stumped."

"Maybe they weren't natural?" Ron suggested. "I mean, if Hagrid didn't know what they could have been…"

"Well, it was decided in the end that they were an illusion, if they were there at all," Bill said. "I'm not sure either way, myself – but I do know that they went through the LeStrange vault while they were there."

Harry blinked. "Her vault, possibly containing a piece of You-Know-Who's soul, was raided by little blue men? I bet she wasn't happy to hear that!"

"Not really. She killed about five goblins before she calmed down," Bill said, looking straight at Harry. The younger boy winced, and looked away.

"Sorry."

"S'ok," Bill replied. "Anyway. We put it down to her losing a lot of gold, but obviously if there was something more important…"

"So the Horcrux was stolen?" Harry asked. "Great; the closest to finding one we've been for months, and it isn't where it should be! Just wonderful!"

"At least it's a start," Hermione pointed out. "Maybe if we were able to find out who or what these blue things are, we could find out where they might have taken the Horcrux?"

"Bit of a longshot, but it's worth a try," Ron chipped in. Harry nodded, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Can you get us in contact with the rest of the Order, Bill?" he asked. The older Weasley nodded, getting up from the table and heading to the kitchen.

"There's a meeting tomorrow night; you should come along."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The first thing Harry saw as they arrived at the meeting was Luna, sitting talking to Ginny at the dining table. They were at Remus and Tonks' cottage, and Tonks was manoeuvring her way around the room with a tray of drinks, a disaster waiting to happen. Luna looked up as their hostess came within inches of dousing her with Butterbeer, and her eyes widened even more than usual when she saw Harry. He gave her a jaunty wave and a grin, and she leapt to her feet, Ginny following her lead closely.

The first thing Harry _felt _at the meeting was Luna's palm impacting against his cheek, closely followed by Ginny's rather more resounding strike. He staggered back, clutching his face in shock.

"What the bloody hell was that for?"

"You left me here while you went off in your own!" Luna exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips. "Anything could have happened!"

"I was doing ok," Harry said defensively. "You do know that really hurt, don't you?"

"Oh? What would you have done if you'd been attacked by drop bears?" Luna quizzed him, her eyes narrowing. "I can't believe you just left me behind!"

Harry could feel himself beginning to grin at the mention of another of Luna's alleged beasts, but the look of genuine hurt on her face stopped him. He reached out to awkwardly grab her arm, and squeezed it comfortingly. "I'm sorry, I just – I didn't want you to get hurt."

"The whole country is at war, Harry," Luna pointed out. "I'm hardly safe, am I?"

"Safer, I think," Harry retorted. Luna shook her head.

"Not the point. I understand where you're coming from, but I'd have liked to have come with you. I want to help my friend."

Harry shook his head, marvelling at how the younger girl, despite seeming so placid and innocent, knew exactly how to make him feel guilty. "I'm sorry, ok? I'll be around a lot more from now on, I think. And if we do go anywhere, you can come with us. Assuming your dad agrees, of course," he added at the end. Luna tilted her head, considering this, and then nodded.

"That's acceptable. Welcome back, Harry."

She hugged him, and this time Harry did laugh. "Good to see you again, Luna. I missed you."

"I missed you too," she said, smiling at him. "I think Ginny wants to shout at you now though, so I'll leave you to it."

"Oh, thanks…" Harry said, watching her walk away to greet Ron and Hermione – very cheerfully, he noted sourly. That didn't seem fair to him. He looked to Ginny, and cringed at her expression and tightly folded arms. "So, Ginny…how are you?"

"So, did you not want me to get hurt either, or do you just think I'm not good enough?" Ginny asked calmly. Too calmly.

"I know you're good enough, Gin," Harry said carefully. "I don't want anybody to get hurt, you know that."

"Ron and Hermione came with you," she pointed out. Harry rolled his eyes.

"They found me and wouldn't leave, you mean. What was I supposed to do, hex them and dump them in an alley somewhere?"

"I don't know, could have been funny," Ginny said with a twitch of her lips. "Ok, I'll allow you that one – but you do realise I don't take that sort of chivalrous bollocks from my brothers, don't you? I'm not going to take it from you either."

Harry grinned weakly. "Sorry. Same offer applies to you?"

"Excellent!" A warm smile broke out on Ginny's face, and she embraced him. "Great to see you again, Harry. We've all missed you."

"I've missed you too, believe me," Harry replied, wrapping his own arms around her. "Ron's not great company when he's got cabin fever."

"You're telling _me_?" she asked playfully, stepping back. "It's good to see they haven't killed each other though."

"True, but nothing else has happened either," he told her. Ginny sighed.

"Still? I swear, I'm going to tie them in a room with nothing but oysters, champagne and suggestive music one of these days."

Harry didn't reply to this suggestion, due to his thoughts suddenly being a little preoccupied, but before his silence became awkward, Remus called the meeting to order. They all took seats around the dining table.

"So, good evening to you all, and welcome back to Harry, Ron and Hermione. I know we're all eager to catch up, but we'll have plenty of time for that later; right now, we've got more important things to discuss. As you know, we recently captured a Death Eater in Lichfield – better known to the public as Pius Thicknesse."

"He worked in the Ministry, quite high-ranking," Tonks butted in, leaning across to Harry. "We had no idea he was a traitor."

"What was he doing in Lichfield?" Harry asked. "Doesn't seem like a high profile target."

"Muggle baiting – he was dressed as Santa Claus, and he had a Manticore on his sleigh," Tonks replied. Harry blinked.

"Wow. That's…innovative."

"All up to speed now?" Remus asked pointedly. Tonks sat back with a shameless grin on her face, and winked at her fiancé. He rolled his eyes and carried on. "Given his position in the Ministry, we obviously needed to make sure whether he was under the Imperius – or similar, of course – or whether he was genuinely a Death Eater. Sadly, Mistress Weatherwax found no evidence of any sort of mental tampering at all; we have to conclude that he signed up of his own free will."

"Wait, Granny Weatherwax?" Harry blurted out. "What would she know about it?"

"She's scarily good at mind magic," Tonks said. "Seriously, you need to see it to believe it. I think she calls it Borrowing, or something."

"Makes sense," Ron commented. "Remember when she made Umbridge think she was a toad?"

"Fair point," Harry admitted. "I just didn't think you could prove one way or another if someone had been under the Imperius."

"Like Tonks said, she's scarily good," Remus said. "Better than anyone else I've ever seen, certainly. I trust her judgement, as do the rest of the Order. Anyway…she managed to extract some information from him. The Death Eaters seem to be focusing their attentions on an archaeological site just outside Bath, apparently being led by someone called Magwilde. Unfortunately, we have no idea why – but I think it's safe to say that if the Death Eaters are interested, we should be too. Agreed?"

There was a chorus of assent from around the table, although Harry itched with frustration. He didn't see that this could have much relevance to the search for the Horcruxes. Tonks leant forward once more, habitually restless. "I thought Granny was going to be here tonight?"

An irritated look crossed Remus's face. "She will be, eventually. She doesn't like the Floo or Apparation though, and her broomstick is falling apart. She was trying to get it started, last I saw. She'll be here soon though, I'm sure."

"Great," Harry said. "I need to talk to someone from Discworld. Something about the raid on Gringotts."

"What would they know about it?" Remus replied, looking confused. "Why would they come all this way to rob a bank? Do they not have banks there?"

"I don't think anyone we know did," Harry said, shaking his head. "But those little blue things people saw…they're not any species Hagrid recognised, so I reckon they aren't from this world. Could be an illusion, of course, but what would be the point? It certainly wasn't much of a distraction, and even wizards aren't so odd as to create imaginary little blue men to run around a pub."

"You never met our Uncle Bilius, did you?" Charlie Weasley called out from the other end of the table. Harry grinned.

"No, but I think my point stands. I'm wondering if they're native to Discworld."

Further conversation was halted by a loud crash from outside, followed by some loud curses. Harry, who had immediately leapt to his feet and drawn his wand, was surprised to see that none of the members of the Order had reacted; they seemed amused by it.

"You know I said her broom was falling apart?" Remus said, looking at Harry. "It doesn't help that she's not that good at flying it, either. Or landing."

"Ah," Harry said, nodding in understanding. He sat down, sheathing his wand. Soon enough, the door burst open to reveal Granny Weatherwax, looking slightly less formidable than he was used to with the leaves and twigs still stuck in her hat band. She nodded to them all, and took a seat at the head of the table. There was a quiet pause while she collected herself after her undignified landing.

"Wotcha!" came Nanny Ogg's distinctive voice. The rotund witch wandered into the room, her sole tooth clearly visible through her wide grin as she waved cheerfully to everyone. "Good to see you all again, anyone got anything to drink?"

"Have you no shame, Gytha Ogg?" Granny asked, sighing. Nanny grinned and sat down next to her friend.

"Not 'specially, no. So what about that beer?"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"Little blue men? Don't suppose they were wearing kilts were they?"

Harry frowned at Nanny Ogg's question. "Not that I know of. Does that matter?"

"Not really, but it'd have clinched it," she said, taking a swig of her beer – her third since she had arrived, although it didn't seem to be affecting her at all. "Ah, you brew some good stuff here, lad. Anyway, definitely Feegles you're looking for, right Esme?"

Granny nodded thoughtfully. "Definitely. They're pixies, and they ain't actually blue – they dye their skin, tattoos, that sort of thing."

"Yeah, and they'll get in anywhere just for the hell of it, little buggers," Nanny elaborated cheerfully. "Brilliant thieves, 'specially sheep."

"Must take a few of them if they're that small," Harry said with a smile. Nanny nodded.

"Yep. Four of them. One for each leg, and then you see this sheep going backwards."

Harry blinked, and Nanny chuckled. "They're a bit stronger than you or me, my lad. Fierce as you like, as well – even Greebo's scared of 'em."

Harry nodded slowly, mentally nudging his estimation of these Feegles up a few notches. "That's…disturbing. Any idea where we could find them?"

"They like old barrows, mainly – you know, for dead kings and such," Nanny explained. "Real roomy for 'em, you see?"

"Hang on…" Harry leapt to his feet, and hurried back out into the dining room. The members of the Order still gathered there looked up as he poked his head around the door. "Remus, did you say that the Death Eaters were looking at a dig somewhere?"

"Outside Bath, yes. Why?"

"Did you find out what kind of site it was?"

"I don't think the people digging it up are entirely sure yet, but Thicknesse seemed to think there was a royal connection. Again, why?"

Harry grinned. "We're going Horcrux hunting. Anyone else want to come?"


	34. The Battle of the Barrow

Chapter 34: The Battle of the Barrow

"Damn these clothes! What did you say this is called again?"

"Corduroy."

"Ugh. One might as well wear animal skins. And is this hat _really _necessary?"

"It's what they wear, Malfoy."

"The more I see of Muggles, the more I despise them."

"Soon the Dark Lord will assume power openly. Then we can hunt them again, like the vermin they are," said Amycus Carrow.

"Speaking of vermin…" said Lucius Malfoy. They turned towards the grassy hillock, pale in the glare of many floodlights. Several hooded Dementors were circling it, flitting in and out of the light like vast black bats. Beyond the Dementors a group of patronuses stood guard: a ring of silver that shut in the shades' draining power. From the hillock Malfoy and Carrow could hear many voices crying:

"Oh wailey wailey!"

"We're all doomed!"

"Wailey wailey wailey!"

"No change there," said Carrow, spitting vehemently, "They are not going anywhere."

In addition to the doors of Gringotts and the cunning devices of the goblins, the treasures of the LeStrange vault had been protected with numerous charms. One of these charms had allowed the Death Eaters to track the missing cup to an ancient barrow outside Bath. To ward off the suspicions of local wizards (the Death Eaters gave no thought to the Muggles) they disguised themselves as a party of Muggle archaeologists intent on excavating the barrow, complete with tents and unfashionable clothes. Last night they had approached the barrow, intent on flushing the thieves out and retrieving the cup. But they had run into a few problems.

"How is Goyle?" asked Malfoy.

"Still bedridden," said Carrow with an unpleasant laugh, "It will be a miracle if he has any more children."

Malfoy winced at the memory. Several of the Death Eaters dispatched to the barrow had been incapacitated. Only his decision to summon the Dementors had prevented the thieves escaping into the night. Malfoy could not afford another failure. The Dark Lord had given him one chance to redeem himself; he would not be given another.

Malfoy and Carrow turned to watch two mechanical diggers rumbling up the road from the nearby Muggle village. As they drew closer Malfoy could see Alecto Carrow sitting in the first one, her hands folded behind her head and her feet resting on the dashboard. There was nobody in the second digger.

"You fool!" shouted Malfoy, "We are supposed to be disguised as Muggles. What if you had been seen?"

"Well do _you _know how to ride one of these things?" said Alecto sharply.

"You could have at least pretended!"

"I don't see why we can't just blast our way in," said Amycus.

"I told you: it's too risky with the Dementors so close," said Malfoy, "There aren't many of us left and we need every patronus we can summon to keep them off while we search for the cup. Get Mulciber and the others up here. The sooner we find the cup the sooner we can change out of these damn clothes."

Amycus grunted an acknowledgement. Then a caravan fell out of the sky and landed on the tent beside them.

* * *

"The Minister is busy."

"I shan't k-keep him long," said Umbridge. Travers shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. He had seen and done many terrible things for the greater glory of wizardkind but there was something about Dolores Umbridge that unsettled him. Her colleagues said that she had never been the same since her disastrous tenure as Headmistress of Hogwarts. Before that she had been one of the fastest rising stars in the civil service, holding the ear of the Minister himself. Now she was an oddity, performing capably as a member of the Muggleborn Registration Committee but not to be trusted with real responsibility.

"The Minister is _very _busy," Travers repeated, trying to close the door.

"I only n-need a few s-signatures," said Umbridge, stepping forward quickly. Perhaps it was her twitch, thought Travers. It kept moving. First her eye would spasm; then her hand would shake; next her lips or a whole leg might go. The overall effect was one of various body parts trying to shake themselves loose in a bid for freedom.

"Just let her in," sighed Rowle. Travers shrugged and stepped back to let her pass. Cornelius Fudge's office was large, gaudily decorated with many gold and silver ornaments, and dominated by a huge portrait of Fudge himself. It was hung directly behind his desk, so that it was the first thing a visitor saw when they entered. The man seated behind the desk was barely recognisable as the plump, imperious figure captured on canvas.

"Dolores Umbridge, Minister," announced Rowle, moving to stand behind his chair. Fudge leaned forward and squinted at Umbridge.

"Are you here about the milk?" he mumbled, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

"Dolores works for the Ministry, sir," Travers explained patiently, "The Committee for Muggleborn Registration."

"Ah, of course."

Fudge had been deteriorating steadily for over a month now. A person's mind simply could not withstand the prolonged influence of the Imperius Curse. It was rumoured among the more influential Death Eaters that Fudge would soon be removed and an actor, using the Polyjuice Potion, would take his place at official functions. Travers did not like to see a Pureblood like Fudge reduced such a haggard state but, as the Dark Lord frequently reminded them, great sacrifices would be necessary if they were to purify their people.

Umbridge juddered forward and slid a small pile of forms across the desk: "I req-quire a few signatures, Minister."

"Hmm," said Fudge, holding the papers so close that they almost brushed the tip of his nose, "What's this? Requisitions? Security clearance?"

"Let me see those," said Travers, holding out his hand.

"T-that won't be necessary!" squeaked Umbridge, snatching the papers back.

"Now, Dolores."

"Steady on, Travers," said Rowle, spreading his hands, "It's just a bit of paperwork."

"She's applying for top security clearance," said Travers, "We should run it past Dolohov."

"Ah. I'm afraid I must disagree."

Rowle's spell hit Travers before he could even reach his wand. Four hands of brick sprouted from the wall to hold his wrists and ankles. A fifth hand snaked across his mouth, preventing him from crying out or attempting wandless magic.

"I say!" cried Fudge weakly.

"_Imperio,_" said Umbridge. The final glimmer of intelligence faded from Fudge's face.

Rowle crossed the room, took Travers's wand and broke it calmly across his knee. Then he turned to the door and placed many powerful barriers and spells of silence on it. Travers could only watch in horrified incomprehension. Rowle, a member of the Order? It was impossible. He had been cleared by Severus Snape, their most gifted Legilimens, apart from the Dark Lord.

"The room is secure, ma'am," said Rowle, "But be quick. We may be discovered at any moment."

"This w-won't take long," Umbridge replied. The travelling twitch was still present but Umbridge seemed far more focused than she had at the door. There was a certain fanatic glint in her eye that reminded Travers of Bellatrix LeStrange. Umbridge turned her wand on Fudge.

"Sign," she ordered. Still staring blankly into the middle distance, Fudge picked up his pen and signed each form that Umbridge placed in front of him.

"D-done," she said, gathering up the papers. "Balfour, get r-rid of the evidence." Travers recognised the name: Brutus Balfour, a particularly notorious Auror. He must be using Polyjuice potion. But what had become of the real Rowle, he wondered?

"Yes, ma'am," said Balfour. "_Obliviate._" Fudge slumped back in his chair. A thin trail of drool began to trickle out of the corner of his mouth. Balfour flicked his wand at Travers. Travers tried to scream as he felt the hands drawing him backwards, slowly, irresistibly, into the wall.

A few seconds later, Fudge was alone in his office.

* * *

The caravan exploded outwards in a burst of multicoloured light. The Death Eaters scattered as the various hexes soared through their camp. The caravan door flew open and Harry appeared, hurling Stunning charms in every direction. Behind him came Ron, Hermione, Luna, and Ginny.

Something had gone badly wrong. Harry threw up a Shield spell and looked around. They had landed in the middle of what appeared to be a campsite on the top of a wide hill. At the foot of the hill a few twinkling lights suggested a Muggle village. On the horizon was the orange haze of a larger town. To their left was a little hillock, illuminated by many floodlights. In front of them and a little to their right were parked two mechanical diggers. There were many people running towards them. They were dressed like Muggles but they all had wands in their hands.

Harry digested all of this in a matter of seconds. They had landed in the middle of the Death Eater camp by mistake, instead of two miles away as they had arranged with the Order. Their plan to surround the camp and attack stealthily had been blown sky high. The Order would arrive at the rendezvous in a few minutes but it would take them several minutes longer to realise what had happened. Could Harry and his friends hold out that long, against so many? He knew that they must: if they retreated now they would never get another chance to claim this horcrux.

"Stay near the caravan!" Harry bellowed, "We have to stick together or we're dead!"

The Death Eaters had rallied and were pressing in against the teenagers. The air between the two groups was a shifting haze of rainbow colours, cracking and hissing as spells collided with counter-spells. Many of the tents on the hilltop had burst into blue and purple flame. Harry moved between his friends, lending assistance where it was needed and plugging any gaps that opened up.

"That's it Luna… Keep it up Ginny; that was a great bit of wandwork… Hermione, defend yourself! I've got him…"

The ground beneath them began to tremble. The line of Death Eaters parted as the mechanical diggers, their cabs empty, rolled towards Harry and his friends.

"I've got it!" said Ron, aiming a Blasting curse at the foremost digger. The curse struck the digger with a noise like a giant gong, cracking the front scoop straight down the middle, but did not stop it.

"Run!" shouted Harry as he and his friends leapt aside. The Death Eaters surged forwards, laughing triumphantly. In an instant Harry had lost sight of his friends. He came face to face with Lucius Malfoy, who was wearing a hideous corduroy suit.

"It's him!" he cried, "It's Po—"

"_Stupefy!" _Harry shouted. Malfoy deflected the attack and responded with a jinx of his own. Harry blocked and retaliated, pressing him as hard as he could. He knew that if he allowed Malfoy even a second's pause there was a chance he could summon Voldemort.

Malfoy fell back, Harry's curses shimmering around him like heat haze. His wand twirled and a stream of crows burst from the end of his wand. They descended on Harry in a screeching cloud of black feathers. Harry turned them to ice in midflight, shattered them with a charm, and returned them to Malfoy as razor-sharp hailstones. The hailstones dissolved into steam as they struck the invisible shield that surrounded him. Harry was about to follow up with a conjuration of his own when he felt a familiar, sickening dread descending on him.

"_No! Not Harry! Please!" _screamed the memory of his mother's voice.

"_Expecto Patronum!" _

The silver stag erupted from the end of Harry's wand. The Dementor, a dark shape against the purple flames, fell back with a hiss.

"_Crucio!" _said Malfoy. Harry conjured a metal shield to intercept the curse. His attention occupied, Harry's Patronus dissolved into silvery mist.

Somewhere a girl was screaming so loudly that she could be heard even over the sounds of battle. Harry rushed towards her, distracting Malfoy with a burst of blindingly bright light. He rounded a burning tent and saw Luna lying on the ground. A Dementor was standing over her, its head uncovered, its terrible lipless mouth bending towards her.

"_Expecto Pat-"_

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

"Harry! Get down!"

Somebody grabbed him from behind and dragged him to the ground. A jet of green light passed over them, straight through where Harry had been standing.

"Are you alright?" said Ginny breathlessly. Harry was about to reply when he realised that Luna had stopped screaming. He leapt to his feet and saw that the Dementor had Luna in its embrace.

"No! Get away from her! _Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum!"_

As Harry struggled to remember his happy memory, any happy memory, he was dimly aware of several strange voices in the distance.

"Hey. I'm nae feelin' the horrors a'y more."

"Aye, me neither!"

"Them great hoverin' black beasties ha' gone."

"But the scunners what set them on us are still out there."

"Well ye know what we should about that, eh?"

"Serve 'em a knuckle sandwich, Rob?"

"Aye, Wullie. For once, y're absolutely correct!"

"Let's get 'em! _Nac Mac Feegle! The Wee Free Men! __Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna be fooled again!__"_


	35. Crivens!

**Chapter 35: Crivens!**

In the blink of an eye, the hillside was awash with tiny blue creatures in kilts. Distracted as he was, Harry barely noticed, flinging as much will and power into his Patronus as he could manage. The icy misery battering at him was sapping his strength though, making it hard to remember that he had _ever_ had happy memories. Dimly, he realised that the blue things had vanished.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" He cast the spell with all the passion he could muster, and was rewarded with a silvery shimmer in the air. For a moment, it had legs, but they faded away as he watched. Falling to his knees, he flicked the Patronus, such as it was, towards Luna and the Dementor; it seeped between them, hovering over Luna's face. The Dementor recoiled, pushing Luna away and turning to face its attacker. As its gaze fell on Harry, his wand fell from his fingertips, his energy spent. He averted his gaze, and saw that Ginny was curled up next to him, shivering despite the purple flames that surrounded them.

The purple sheen that had been layered over everything vanished, and the roaring sound in his ears was silenced. Harry looked up, and a vast, silvery wolf battered the Dementor to the ground, clawing at its face. The Dementor let out a shriek that seemed to coat his bones in ice, pawing at the suddenly very substantial Patronus with its spindly, bony arms. The wolf looked around, fixing its gaze on another opponent, and the pinned Dementor wriggled free, sliding off into the dark sky.

"What…" Harry whispered to himself. The cold, crushing misery was disappearing rapidly, and he fumbled for his wand. Strong hands yanked him to his feet as he found it, and he thrust it forwards, ready to defend himself.

"Woah! Watch it, Harry, it's me!" The familiar voice dispelled the last traces of the Dementor's influence, and he laughed.

"Tonks? Oh, you have no idea how glad I am to see you! Are the others here?"

"Yeah, we're all here." The older witch pointed to the dig site behind them, which was periodically lit up by flashes of light. "Looks like Remus and Bill are kicking arse and taking names, all right. Wanna go join the fun?"

"Damn right – no, Luna!"

Harry tore away from Tonks, sprinting over to his friends' prone body. Grabbing her shoulder, he shook her, praying that the worst hadn't happened.

"Is she…?"

Tonks was hovering over him, supporting Ginny and holding chocolate, but Harry ignored her. Luna was not responding. In desperation, Harry bent over, pressing his lips to hers and breathing hard into her mouth.

"What the hell are you doing?" Tonks demanded, sounding revolted.

"The kiss of life, what do you think?" Harry retorted, looking up and glaring at her. Tonks rolled her eyes.

"You're such a muggle sometimes, you know that?" She flicked her wand, and a ball of blue light struck Luna's chest. Her eyes burst open, even wider than usual, and she screamed. Harry looked back at Tonks, all set to scream at her, but then Luna spoke his name.

"Harry?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm here, you're ok-"

"Of course I'm ok," Luna said matter-of-factly, sitting up and accepting some chocolate from Tonks. "You were here. Although you were kissing me."

"I…I wasn't _kissing_, I-" Harry protested, suddenly flummoxed by the turn of conversation.

"I'm not sure I liked it," Luna continued, her expression thoughtful. "And really, Harry, you should ask first. Manners can never be over-rated."

Harry stared at her blankly, and then registered her expression, the slight twinkle in her eye. "I hate you sometimes," he told her. She smiled and shook her head.

"No you don't."

"No, I don't," he agreed, and wrapped his arms around her. "Now get back to the caravan."

"Harry," she started to protest, but he cut her off.

"You nearly lost your soul a minute ago! Go back to the caravan and rest. I'll see you soon. Ginny, can you go with her?"

Ginny shot him a dirty look, clearly raring to carry on the battle alongside him, but she said nothing. He smiled gratefully at her, and turned back to Tonks.

"What's the situation?"

"Buggered if I know," she said cheerfully. "We Portkeyed in, then realised you must have screwed up your entry, so we just threw ourselves in. I think Cohen was happier about that than he was the original plan, actually."

"Sounds about right," Harry muttered. "I wasn't the only one who saw those blue things, was I? I guess they were the Feegles, but they've gone."

No sooner had the words left his lips than the night suddenly went silent. No spells were being cast, and the four of them turned to the battle at the bottom of the hillock. The spell-light had vanished, and it seemed that all activity had stopped. Leaning forward, Harry could just about make out people running.

"Don't go into the long grass!" someone screamed. The voice was aristocratic, arrogant, and familiar. This time though, Lucius Malfoy sounded scared. Now that he had identified the fleeing figures as Death Eaters, Harry could just about make out Malfoy's luxurious blond mane flowing behind him as he ran, his cane abandoned. His companions ignored his bewildering advice though, one or two of them vanishing into a patch of grass that came above their waists.

The first one to run in vanished before he had gone two feet. His companion was sucked into the grass mere seconds later. There came the sounds of violence, enthusiastically carried out. And then the swarm of Feegles reappeared, waving tiny broadswords and axes over their heads with little care for personal space. One of them, slightly bigger than the others, leapt onto Lucius Malfoy's ridiculous corduroy trousers before scurrying up the front of his jacket. Before Malfoy could do anything, it had slung its broadsword over its shoulder, and grabbed onto Malfoy's face with both hands. The Death Eater screamed, and the Feegle head-butted him. There was a resounding crack as Malfoy's nose shattered, and he keeled over backwards, suddenly silenced. The Feegle drew his sword once more, waving it over his head and shouting a battle cry.

"How d'yer like them apples, bigjobs? Up an' at 'em lads!"

It was a rout. The Feegles were tiny, but they packed a hell of a punch. As Harry watched, two of them grabbed a Death Eater he didn't recognise, one foot each, and hurled him into two other Death Eaters to scatter them like nine-pins. The Dementors, still being harassed by the Order's Patroni, were less vulnerable, the Feegles clearly wary, but equally they didn't go near the tiny people. Marvelling at the display, Harry waded in.

To his left, Alecto Carrow was driving a digger towards Remus, cackling madly as she pushed buttons at random. The huge shovel on the front swung ponderously at him, and he ducked and rolled out of the way. Flipping to his feet, he pointed his wand at the other digger, and gave a tug. The shovel was ripped away, and Remus made it dance in the air in front of him, parrying Carrow's digger expertly. Ducking beneath a bolt of blue light, and responding with a conjured chain to bind his attacker's feet, Harry laughed as Remus smashed the shovel through Carrow's drivers compartment, sending her fleeing. With a great sweep of his wand, Remus hurled the shovel into the midst of a crowd of Death Eaters.

"Harry, where's the caravan?" the werewolf called to him. Harry grimaced, and pointed. He could see Ginny sneaking Luna in through the door, apparently having successfully bypassed the battle. Remus shook his head.

"You landed right in the middle of their camp? Nice going!"

"We didn't mean to," Harry said defensively. "Besides, Ron was driving."

"I'm sure. Well, we seem to have the upper hand regardless. Let's see what we can do to them, hmm?"

Shifting his wand to his left hand, Harry drew the Sword of Gryffindor from the sheath at his belt, and followed Remus further into the fray. He swung the sword, catching a curse on the blade, and casting back with his wand. His spell ricocheted from a shield off into the night, and Remus tore on ahead. Harry held back, focused on his opponent. The Death Eater jumped forward, his wand spitting all too familiar green light, which Harry ducked under. Closer now, he recognised Dolohov's leering face, and he gave an upwards swipe of his wand. A column of earth shot upwards, smacking Dolohov on the chin, and then Harry hit him in the chest with a bolt of lightning. The Death Eater's wand fell from his spasming fingertips as he shot backwards, and Harry kicked it into the long grass before carrying on.

A massive explosion sent them tumbling to the ground, a great gout of flame shooting up into the night sky. The sudden light revealed the Dementors swooping away, silvery shapes chasing them away from the battleground, and Harry grinned in triumph. That was one victory; now they just had to beat the Death Eaters. Pushing himself to his feet, he looked around for anyone else still standing. What he saw horrified him.

The caravan had been knocked over, its windows shattered and the door hanging loose. He broke into a run, heading towards it and praying that Luna and Ginny were ok. He was a few feet from it, calling their names at the top of his voice, when a spell caught him around the ankles. He fell to the ground, face first. Another spell flung him into the air and he hung there, arms splayed to stop him fighting back.

"Potter…" Lucius Malfoy had performed some rough and ready healing magic to his nose, but he would never look as regal as he once had. The effect was further ruined by his torn suit, and the mud spattered over his long hair. His eyes shone with a vicious anger though, and he slashed his wand downwards as he approached Harry. A blaze of pain shot down his cheek, and he bit back a scream.

"This is all your fault, you meddling little brat! This was my last chance, the Dark Lord…the Dark Lord…" Slowly, realisation of his opportunity was dawning on the Pureblood, and a sinister smile spread across his face. "The Dark Lord would forgive me everything if I brought you to him, Potter. I take it all back, I should be thanking you for your trouble!"

"Leave him alone!"

A flash of light struck Malfoy's shoulder, and he fell to the ground. The spell holding Harry in place vanished; he landed on his feet and looked around frantically for either his wand or the Sword. Luna charged past him, throwing hexes at Malfoy as fast as she could. Harry grabbed at the Sword, and Malfoy parried Luna's spells.

And then his wand flashed, and Luna was thrown backwards. She hit the ground hard, blood trickling from her nose, and lay still.

"Luna!"

Harry rushed to her side, falling to his knees next to her, but she did not respond. He pressed his fingers to her wrist, trying to find a pulse, but his efforts were in vain. As he choked back a sob, blue fire sizzled past his face, and he whirled around. Malfoy was pressing forward once more, murder in his eyes. Harry was happy to answer the challenge.

His first curse shattered Malfoy's nose for the second time that evening. His second caused Malfoy's eyes to swell painfully. Despite this, Malfoy managed to curse him right back, streaks of deadly light shooting towards him. Harry ducked and rolled, and came up holding the Sword. He quickly switched wand and blade between his hands; he had become quite proficient in casting with his left hand, at least for blunter work, but his swordplay, such as it was, was far stronger with his right.

Malfoy whirled his wand around his head, fire cascading from the tip like a whip. He slashed it at Harry, barely aiming – barely able to aim, his eyes streaming – and Harry caught the fiery strand on the Goblin steel blade. It coiled around it tightly, and then Harry pulled at it. Malfoy was yanked off balance, and Harry waved his wand, his eyes cold. A wall of pressure hit Malfoy in the neck, like a tree branch stretched across a woodland path, and he rocked backwards, gurgling. Harry lunged forward, and cracked the hilt of the Sword into the Death Eater's chin. Malfoy fell like a nine-pin, and Harry stood over him, panting with supressed rage. A snap of his wand, and Malfoy's eyes had healed, shrinking back to their normal size. The Pureblood looked up at him, the rage that had fuelled his attack still there but hidden, obscured by a new emotion.

Malfoy was afraid.

Almost without thought, Harry found the tip of the Sword resting at the nape of Malfoy's neck. Just one little push, and it would be alright…

"Harry, please – don't do it."

Turning his head slightly, still keeping an eye on Malfoy, Harry could see Ginny cradling Luna's body. Tears were falling down her cheeks, but her voice was steady, if pleading.

"She wouldn't want you to do it."

"He killed her, Ginny," Harry spat back at her, digging the Sword slightly further into Malfoy's neck. The Death Eater shuddered as a bead of blood welled up over the cold steel.

"Yes. But killing him won't bring her back. You're better than this, Harry, a good man."

For a long, long moment, Harry just stood there, staring into Malfoy's eyes as if trying to divine the innermost workings of his mind. And then he took a step back.

"You're right, Ginny. I am better than him."

She let out a sigh of relief as he dragged the Sword away from Malfoy's neck. Then he swung the Sword, just lightly. The razor sharp, magically enhanced blade sliced through skin easily, and Malfoy screamed as his wand hand parted company with the rest of his arm. Harry turned away, leaving Malfoy sobbing and clutching the stump of his arm. Ginny was staring at him, her eyes wide with shock, and he smiled grimly.

"Guess I'm just an alright man, overall."

He sheathed the Sword, and with a flick of his wand righted the caravan to its normal position. Then he bent down, picked Luna up into his arms, and carried her inside.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The Dementors had fled, which was probably a good thing, because Harry had no idea how they would have gone about imprisoning them. The few Death Eaters that hadn't managed to Disapparate, on the other hand, were now huddled in a group near the caravan, sullen, nervous expressions on their faces. Someone had cauterised Malfoy's arm, although they had done nothing to dull the pain; the blond Pureblood was grimacing and gritting his teeth against the urge to scream once more. It was a sorry bunch – Malfoy was the only prisoner of any real value, although how much Voldemort would have entrusted him with after his recent catastrophic failures was a matter of debate.

The three witches from Discworld had finally arrived, and Nanny Ogg was chattering happily with one of the Feegles, occasionally swigging from a tankard of scumble. They seemed to know each other, although Nanny seemed to know everyone, even people she had only just met.

Harry was sitting apart from the other Order members, staring dully at the caravan. He really did not want to go inside, not now. Even the knowledge that the escaped Death Eaters would likely be returning with back up shortly could not seem to energise him. He did not react as one of the watchmen, a tall, strapping young man with red hair, came and sat down next to him. He vaguely recalled him being called Carrot. The watchman removed his helmet with a sigh, and looked at Harry.

"It's never easy, is it?"

Harry remained silent, doing his best not to roll his eyes.

"Was she…" Carrot trailed off, his cheeks turning red. It took a moment for Harry to realise what he was getting at, and then he laughed, hollowly.

"We were just friends. Good friends, but nothing more."

"Ah." They sat there in silence for a moment, watching the Death Eaters. Vimes had now taken it upon himself to try and question them, although they did not seem to be co-operating easily.

"Have you ever lost someone?" Harry asked, abruptly. Carrot shook his head after a moments thought.

"Almost. Angua, my…" he looked embarrassed for a moment. "Well, my partner. An assassin shot her."

"But she was ok?"

"After a while. She's a werewolf, you see. It seemed like she was dead, but it wasn't silver. She got better."

"What did you do with the assassin?"

"I tried to arrest him. He had other ideas though," Carrot admitted, as though the thought pained him. "I ended up killing him."

"Did that help?" Harry couldn't help the way his eye slid towards Malfoy at this point.

"Not really. There were bigger things to consider."

At this, Harry turned to look at the watchman, incredulous. "More important? He shot your girlfriend! What could be more important than that?!"

Carrot smiled at him. "That's personal, Harry. Personal isn't the same as important."

Harry stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then: "That sounds like something Dumbledore would have said."

"Thank you, I think." Carrot stood up. "Come along. Plenty to be getting on with." He reached out his hand to Harry, and Harry pulled himself up. Carrot was right, he decided. Luna had never been one to wallow, and she would have been most disappointed to see his reaction. If he wanted to indulge, he would have plenty of time later. Assuming they won of course. If they didn't…well, then it would be a moot point.

He followed Carrot over to where Remus and Bill were standing. They had conjured a table, and the largest of the Feegles was standing proudly upon it, glowering at them. He grinned at Harry as he arrived.

"Hey there, bigjobs! That were some grand work out there!"

"Thanks," Harry muttered uncertainly. Bigjobs? Was that an insult, or a compliment? From the cheerful expression on the Feegle's face, he suspected the latter. "Happy to help you out."

"Hey, we'd have handled 'em all right!" the tiny figure protested, holding up his hand threateningly, "An' I'll fight any man who says different, understand?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Ok…why were you inside the barrow then?"

The Feegle shuffled, looking shifty. "Them big black rags. Gave us a right dose of the willies, they did. We couldnae do anything against them! Worse than a damned Hiver…"

_Hiver?_ Harry mouthed silently at Remus, but the werewolf shrugged. Beneath them, the Feegle brightened up. "Once you'd spooked 'em all of, though…well, open season on all scunners, I dinnae have to tell you!"

"Yes, you were very impressive," Remus said, apparently trying to forestall something. The Feegle eyed him, and shrugged.

"This 'un tells me y're lookin' for summat, aye?" he said, addressing Harry.

"That's right," the young wizard said. "A cup, probably gold, about so big…" He waved his hands in the air, trying to roughly sketch out Hufflepuff's goblet. The Feegle was paying him no attention though.

"Aye, dinnae fash yerself. I know exacterly what ye mean, lad. We've been keeping it separate like, ye ken? Gave me the heebie-jeebies, I dinnae mind sayin'."

He hopped down from the table, and beckoned Harry after him. Following him was a harder prospect than Harry had anticipated; he blended quite nicely into the background, despite being bright blue, so it was almost impossible to see him. It certainly explained how the Feegles had wrecked such havoc on the Death Eaters.

"Why did you steal it?" Harry asked out of curiousity, still walking.

"Why not?" A faint voice rang out from the grass beneath him. "We're the Nac Mac Feegles, lad! The Wee Free Men! Champion thieves and fighters. And drinkers."

"You stole it because it was there?" Harry said incredulously. "But…how did you get into Gringotts? It's one of the most secure places in the world!"

The Feegle snorted derisively. "Not to the Feegles, bigjob. There's nae room that can keep us oot when we put our minds tae it."

Harry walked along for a moment in silence, pondering the implications of this. It could make retrieving the other Horcruxes far easier, if it were the case…finding them would be tricky, of course, but they might be able to bypass any protections on them. Eventually, the Feegle led Harry to a hole in the side of the barrow. The little blue man darted through it in a flash, and Harry crouched down. There was no way he was going to fit through though. He drew the Sword, and a few quick swipes had opened up a wider hole for him. He crawled through, and looked up.

On the other side were more Feegles. Many, many more Feegles. Everywhere he looked, the barrow seemed blue. Harry was suddenly acutely aware that he was in what was, in effect, a tomb, surrounded by tiny blue men with an a startling proficiency for brutal violence, while he couldn't even stand up. He smiled, and waggled his fingers in what he hoped was a polite wave.

"Didja get 'em all, Rob?" one of them piped up, indistinguishable from the mass. The Feegle Harry had been following, still slightly taller than the others, nodded.

"O'course we did! What a riddukulus question tae ask!" He looked up at Harry and grimaced. "This one helped, I s'pose. Dab hand with a blade, eh?"

Harry shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise now. There was a part of him that was beginning to wish he hadn't maimed Malfoy like that – although a far larger part of him was still revelling in satisfaction over it. "You said you knew where it was…?"

"Aye! Awfully Wee Billy! Git doon here!"

Another, smaller Feegle appeared from within the crowd, the others parting with something approaching respect. He carried a set of tiny bagpipes slung over one shoulder, and his expression was weary.

"Och, am I glad to see you, Rob! I cannae take much more o' it, I'm telling you."

"Much more of what? Harry asked, alert to danger.

"Yon cup," Billy said, tilting his head into a separate chamber. Harry followed his lead, and grinned triumphantly. There it was. The Horcurx gleamed, even in the darkened air of the barrow, but something about it turned his stomach. He looked away, and saw Rob watching him carefully.

"Got a powerful 'fluence, hasn't it?" the Feegle asked. "We've had Billy here playing his pipes nonstop, just trying to keep it from putting the horrors on us, ye ken?"

"That worked?" Harry asked.

"'Course it did!" Rob said proudly. "Billy's one o' the best Gonagles we've ever had. There's nae beastie or scunner or 'fluence can stand up tae him for long!"

"Useful…" Harry muttered. Then he looked at the other Feegle. "Thank you. I know it wasn't exactly planned, but you've done a lot of good with this. Don't worry; I'll make sure it's destroyed."

"Aye, I reckon you will," Billy said, eying Harry appraisingly. "D'yeh need a hand gettin' it oot?"

"I don't think it should be touched more than possible," Harry said. He drew his wand, and cast a Levitation Charm on the cup. It seemed to resist his magic, just for a moment, but it hovered well enough. He backed out of the barrow, bringing the cup with him, and walked back to the conjured table with it.

"Is that it?" Remus asked, drawing his own wand. Harry nodded, eying the foul thing with distaste. "How do we get rid of it?" the older wizard continued. By way of answer, Harry drew the Sword once more. Raising it above his head, he slashed down. The cup split in two, the sword carrying on through and cutting the table apart as well. The conjured fragments vanished, and the two halves of the cup fell to the ground. There was an echo of a scream, just on the edge of hearing. Then the remnants of the cup exploded, throwing Harry and Remus back.

They hit the ground hard, but rolled and leapt to their feet, wands raised. There was nothing to do though. The remnants of the cup were starting to melt, the grass turning gold beneath it, but there was no other attack. Harry sighed wearily, and let the Sword fall to the ground. He staggered as Remus clapped him on the back.

"One more down! One step closer to victory, Harry! Great job tonight, really."

Almost unconsciously, Harry looked back at the caravan. He wasn't sure the Horcrux had been worth it.


End file.
